


Page Six

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Plug, Author doesn't give a crap about who's on top, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Scenes, Dark, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder Husbands, Psychological Horror, Rimming, Sex Toys, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3659475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crime reporter Will Graham's column on page six of the <i>Baltimore Sun</i> garners him the attention of many: fans, hobby detectives, the FBI...and <i>others</i>.</p><p>-</p><p>Hannibal cut off a piece of meat with surgical precision. “I find your company rather engaging.”</p><p>“Maybe I don't find <i>you</i> all that engaging.”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>Hannibal grinned. “I see that it will take more than one dinner to earn your forgiveness. Challenge accepted.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Шестая полоса (Page Six)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337259) by [pen_pusher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_pusher/pseuds/pen_pusher)



> Still writing [Sugar and Spice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2719400), but this plot bunny chomped down hard.
> 
>  **Notes:** I write a weird mix of fluff, gore, amateur psychology babble and plot. This isn't a _nice_ story, per se. There is violence, there might be instances of body horror/excessive gore, and there will be detailed sex scenes. If you can stomach what's shown on TV in the series, there shouldn't be anything triggering in this story. If you feel I've missed a tag, point it out!

**Page Six**

 

_-_

 

_I smell blood and an era of prominent madmen. - W.H. Auden_

 

-

 

**1.**

 

“Graham!” Crawford shouted across the busy newsroom. “My office. Now!”

 

Activity came to a grinding halt as everyone's eyes turned to Will. From her desk in the corner, Beverly Katz gave him a look that contained raised eyebrows and question marks. Will shrugged; he didn't know what Crawford wanted.

 

The chief editor of the _Baltimore Sun_ impatiently waited for Will to join him. “We got a situation.” Crawford ushered him down the hallway and through the door into his office. A woman stood by the long desk, sour-faced, dressed in red. “Kade Purnell,” Crawford introduced her, “FBI.”

 

Purnell studied Will from the toes of his scuffed shoes to the tips of his messily curled hair. “Have a seat, Mister Graham.”

 

“I'd rather stand.” Will already had a bad feeling about this meeting. “What's this about?”

 

Purnell opened her briefcase, extracting a sheet of paper with an official-looking logo. “This is a court order that allows me to seize all your files about the Chesapeake Ripper, including computer hard drives and portable media.”

 

Will stared at her. “You can't just -”

 

Crawford cleared his throat. “Will. She can.”

 

Purnell placed the paper on the edge of Crawford's desk. “Mister Graham, we asked you, _nicely_ , to stop. Since you can't seem to play nice, neither will we. You're interfering in a federal investigation.”

 

Will crossed his arms. “Yeah, well, if you guys were doing your jobs, I wouldn't have to.”

 

Behind Purnell, Crawford covered his face with a hand. Purnell snapped her briefcase shut, looking decidedly unimpressed by the jab at the FBI's capabilities, or lack thereof. “Last warning, Mister Graham.”

 

“Or you'll what, arrest me?”

 

Purnell smiled unpleasantly. “You know things about that case the FBI didn't even know. I am not the only one who is starting to wonder what your sources are, or if you _are_ the source.”

 

Will ground his jaw. Him, the Chesapeake Ripper? “That's ridiculous, and you know it. Jack?”

 

The chief editor's face was blank, impassive; there'd be no help from that quarter.

 

“That will be all, gentlemen.” Purnell strode to the door. “Have a nice day.”

 

As soon as they were alone, Will turned an angry look at Crawford. “You're just letting her do this?”

 

“My hands are tied.” Crawford sat on the edge of his desk. “You think I'm happy about this?”

 

“I think I want to vomit.”

 

Crawford sighed. “Look, I had a word with Donald. We don't want the feds on a rampage in here.”

 

Will didn't like the sound of that. “Are you pulling my plug?”

 

“I'm telling you to take a break and to play nice, damn it.” That was Crawford's no-nonsense, no-argument voice. “Wait for this to cool down. Come back in a week. Spend time with your dogs. And get some sleep, for fuck's sake. Your sad Panda eyes are starting to scare me.”

 

“Jack...”

 

“Don't _make_ me send you home,” Crawford threatened. “And now get out. See you in a week.”

 

“Jack.”

 

“ _Out_.”

 

Will stomped out. He stopped in the men's bathroom, peering at himself in the mirror. _Panda eyes, my ass_. He looked a little tired, that was all.

 

When he got back to the newsroom, three men with identical crew cuts and 'FBI' printed on the backs of their jackets were going through the contents of his desk. Beverly beckoned him over to her corner, where Zeller and Price had already converged. “We heard,” Zeller said in a hushed voice. “What're you going to do now?”

 

“Not much I _can_ do.” Will felt helpless, and that made everything worse.

 

Beverly nudged an elbow into his ribs. “I hope you backed that shit up.”

 

“In triplicate.”

 

“Good.”

 

Price raised his voice over the low din of conversation. “So much for journalistic freedom, eh guys?”

 

A few agreeing murmurs from the other work stations. Someone clapped their hands. Someone else jeered. The FBI agents packed four large boxes and left.

 

Will trudged over to his desk, eyeing the empty fast-food wrappers, the coffee rings permanently imprinted on the wood. Everything else was gone. The side of Will's computer tower had been opened, the internal and portable drives unplugged and removed. They'd even gone through his drawers, taking USB sticks and CDs that had nothing to do with the Chesapeake Ripper case.

 

Will grabbed his backpack from the floor, not even surprised when he noticed the open front and top compartments. His notebooks were gone. So were his voice recorder and camera. If he hadn't been keeping his cellphone in his pocket, they probably would have taken that, too. “Someone tell Jack I'm taking that break he told me to take. See you guys in a week.”

 

Beverly followed him down into the lobby. “You okay?”

 

“Do I fucking seem okay to you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry.”

 

“Don't let it drag you down.” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, are you still doing that weird foreign food thing? There's a new restaurant, corner of Charles and Pratt, near the Convention Centre. Friend of mine went and wouldn't stop raving about it.” She handed him a folded, crumpled flyer. “Check it out?”

 

Will pocketed the flyer without looking at it. He appreciated Beverly's attempt at cheering him up, but right now, he just wasn't in the mood. “I might. Thanks, Bev.”

 

“Don't be a stranger, okay?” She squeezed his shoulder. “If you need company, I'm just a phone call away.”

 

-

 

Will's beat-up Sedan rolled to a stop in front of his house, next to a car that didn't belong there. Immediately, he noticed the open door and the dogs romping around the parking lot. He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, anger twisting in his chest; fucking FBI. Of course they'd come here, too.

 

A woman strolled out of Will's house. She waited until the dogs were finished with their greeting rituals, then held out her hand. “Doctor Alana Bloom. They left me behind to cushion the blow.”

 

No need to ask who 'they' were. Will walked past her without a word, going straight for his study. Drawers stood open, folders were missing from the bookshelves. _Books_ were missing. The laptop that usually hibernated on the desk by the large bay window was gone. Loose sheets of paper littered the floor. They'd even upturned the mattress of the bed tucked into a corner, as if he was some old lady hiding her life's savings between the bed springs.

 

The click of heels on floorboards announced Doctor Bloom behind him. “Mister Graham, I'd like to talk to you.”

 

Will put his desk chair back into its proper place. “You with the FBI?”

 

She picked up a couch cushion from the floor, frowning at the shoe print on it. “I'm a professor from the psychology department of Georgetown, but I regularly consult with the Behavioural Analysis Unit and lecture at Quantico.”

 

“Good for you. Get out of my house.”

 

“I understand you feel that your personal rights have been trampled, and I -”

 

“And you just trampled them some more. I don't recall giving you permission to wander around my house.” Will spread his arms, indicating the chaos around them. “Hope you guys found what you were looking for. Now get out.”

 

Doctor Bloom opened her bag and pulled out a card, sticking it between the ears of the little dog statue on the sideboard. “I'd appreciate it if you could give me a call. I've been following your coverage of the Chesapeake Ripper case.”

 

Will scoffed. “According to Kade Purnell, the FBI thinks _I_ am the Ripper.”

 

“That is exactly why I would like to talk to you. Your articles show an amazing insight into the mind of this killer. You've given the profilers at the BAU a lot to think about. If you agree to sit down with us, we'd love to pick your brain.”

 

Will barked out a laugh. “Wait, first you guys waltz all over me, now you want my _insight_?”

 

Doctor Bloom winced. “I know my request probably comes at a bad time...”

 

“A really bad time.” He pointed past her. “There's the door. I'm sure you'll find the way.”

 

He stood by the window until Doctor Bloom's car disappeared around the bend of the road. The dogs pressed up against his legs, whimpering, sensing his distress. His head felt like it was about to explode. Grabbing the Aspirin bottle from his desk, he swallowed two of the pills dry, then looked at the chaos around him with a baleful eye.

 

The work of half a year, gone. With any luck, they hadn't found the online backups. If they had, there were still the accounts he'd set up under a different name. If they'd found _those_ , his last resort was one storage medium no one could pack into a box and carry away. The idea of writing down six months worth of material from memory was making Will's stomach cramp, while the empty spot on the desk where his laptop used to be mocked him; he currently didn't even have anything to write _on_.

 

-

 

Wolf Trap's little media outlet had only a small selection of computers, none of them quite what he was looking for. He bought a handful of USB sticks to replace the ones the FBI had taken – USB sticks he'd probably never see again – and drove back to Baltimore.

 

When he pulled out his wallet to pay for the new laptop, the flyer Beverly had given him fell to the floor. _Mischa's_ , it read in calligraphic letters at the top. _Fine dining_. _International Specialities_.

 

The Convention Centre wasn't too far from where Will was parked. If memory served, the contents of his fridge at home consisted of a couple of bones in the freezer and a half gallon of milk that had probably gone sour by now. Will checked his watch. It was almost dinner time. He could go grocery shopping, or he could treat himself. After the day he'd had, he decided a treat was in order.

 

 _Mischa's_ was squeezed in between a book store and a flower shop. Will walked past the place twice before he finally saw the discreet wrought iron letters above the entrance, nearly hidden against the dark wood of the door. No advertisements out on the street, no menu in a glass box. Thick, grey curtains with red stripes blocked the view of the inside through the windows. All in all, not very inviting, but when Will pulled the door open, snatches of conversation drifted out along with scents that made his mouth water.

 

He walked through a short, tunnel-like entrance area and was greeted by a waiter in pressed slacks and a crisp, white shirt. “Good evening. My name is Matthew. Table for one, or will you be expecting company?”

 

“Just me, thanks.” Will looked around. The first thing his gaze caught on was a massive pair of stag antlers behind the bar, stark white against a dark grey wall. They spread wide, like the thorny branches of a tree. The sight jarred him, reminding him of one of the first serial killer cases he had ever covered, the Minnesota Shrike. Garret Jacob Hobbs had killed eight girls and mounted them on antlers like pieces of meat at a butcher's.

 

Matthew guided Will to a table close to the bar, handing him a tall, leather-bound menu. “Here you go. I'll be right back.”

 

Will studied the menu. He just barely managed to keep himself from laughing out loud in shock. The prices were exorbitant. He glanced over the top of the menu, at the other guests. Businesspeople and couples, from the looks of it, and all of them elegantly dressed, the men in suits, the women in...Will didn't even know. He had zero knowledge about fashion, contemporary or otherwise. He shifted uneasily, feeling out of place. He was wearing one of his old sweaters, the one with the frayed collar that Buster had chewed on. _Mischa's_ catered to a far richer clientele than he had guessed at from the unimpressive outside.

 

Matthew returned with a glass of chilled water. “Have you decided?”

 

Will didn't even try to pronounce the name of the dish. “I'll have the baked rabbit.”

 

“Excellent choice. Our regulars swear by it. May I recommend wine? We have a Pinot Noir that goes very well with that meat.”

 

“Sure, thanks.”

 

Will let his gaze roam while he waited. Aside from the morbid wall decoration behind the bar, the rest of the furnishings looked antique; lots of plush, red upholstery and lacquered wood. Small lamps shaped like old oil lanterns hung low over each table, creating intimate pools of light. The inside of the restaurant was larger than the outside had suggested, the tables spaced far enough apart to reinforce the feeling of intimacy, of cosiness. The barkeeper, a sharply dressed blonde, met Will's roving gaze with a queenly nod.

 

Matthew returned again, carrying a big-bellied wine glass on a small tray. He lingered at the table. “Excuse me, but are you Will Graham?”

 

Will was caught off-guard. “Have we met?”

 

“I don't think so, but I'm an avid reader of your weekly column in the _Baltimore Sun_. Page six, right?” Matthew grinned. “I recognize you from your picture.”

 

Will had what Beverly always called his 'murder face' going in said picture; it had been taken after he'd spent a whole week running on little more than caffeine and vending machine snacks. Crawford, the bastard, refused to let him pick a different picture, insisting it fit the crime theme too well.

 

Matthew lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I hope you're not here to investigate us.”

 

Will was beginning to pray the waiter wasn't one of those crime scene groupies, or a hobby detective. He'd had enough of those. His email account at work was overflowing with diatribes from people who swore up and down they were the Watson to his Sherlock. “Just here to eat.”

 

Thankfully, the arrival of new guests called Matthew away. When he circled back around to Will's table for the third time, it was with a small plate in hand. “On the house,” he said. “I'm afraid I let slip to the cook who you are. He's a big fan of your work, too.”

 

He was gone again before Will could voice a protest. The appetizer was six pieces of meat arranged symmetrically around a tomato carved into the shape of a rose, with a slice of toasted bread on the side. Will smelled garlic, thyme, butter. The meat had a strange texture, crunchy on the outside, creamy on the inside. He couldn't compare the flavour to anything he'd had before. It tasted _heavenly_.

 

“What kind of meat was that?” he asked when Matthew came to collect the empty plate.

 

“Heart. Did you like it?”

 

Will had eaten cow heart once. It had been rubbery, tough to chew. “It was excellent. My compliments to the chef.”

 

Matthew walked off with a pleased smile, as if he'd cooked the appetizer himself. He only spoke to Will one more time that evening, when he served him the main course and wished him _bon appétit_ ; guests were filing into the restaurant at a quicker pace now. Will wasn't bothered; he didn't require company to keep himself occupied, and something about Matthew was rubbing him the wrong way. The waiter was _too_ friendly, his eyes fixed too keenly.

 

He was half-finished with his meal – the baked rabbit was succulent and tender, the fingerling potatoes melted on his tongue, even the cooked beets had a taste he was quickly getting used to – when he saw someone approach. The man who stopped at Will's table was dressed like he was about to hit the opera or some other up-scale venue of entertainment. “Good evening. May I sit?”

 

Will glanced at the other tables, finding they were all occupied. Matthew was at the entrance area, turning a couple away with an apologetic look on his face. “Yeah, go ahead.”

 

“Thank you.” The man sat, extending his hand. “Hannibal Lecter.”

 

The name rang a faint bell. Will wasn't very well-versed in Baltimore's upper crust society, that was more Zeller's turf. Will tended to tune out of conversations as soon as they began to revolve around rich people doing rich people things. He'd grown up poor in Louisiana with a father who repaired boat motors for a living, and he remembered all too well the cruelties rich people's kids got away with – the cruelties rich _adults_ got away with.

 

“Will Graham.” They shook hands. “I'll be done in a few minutes, then the table is yours.”

 

“A good meal is something that should be enjoyed, not rushed through.” Hannibal folded one leg over the other. “Thank you for the compliment, by the way.”

 

Will didn't understand. “Compliment?”

 

“The appetizer.” Hannibal lifted a languid eyebrow. “I was told you liked it.”

 

“ _You_ made that?”

 

“You seem surprised.”

 

There wasn't a single spot on Hannibal's shirt, nothing that indicated he'd spent the last few hours slaving away over pots and pans. Maybe he'd changed outfits before he left the kitchen, but if he was the cook, what was he doing out here now? The tables were packed. Matthew had just turned away another group of guests. “Sorry, just...”

 

“Just?” Hannibal prompted, a glint in his eyes.

 

“Well, you don't really look like a cook, I guess.”

 

“And what does a cook look like?”

 

Before Will could answer, the barkeeper came up behind Hannibal with a glass of wine. He took it from her with a nod of thanks. “Imagine, Bedelia – apparently, I don't look like a cook. Maybe I should start dressing up in those awful chequered pants and white tunics.”

 

Bedelia's cool gaze flicked over Will. “Not everyone has an appreciation for the finer things in life.” She walked away with a smirk on her lips.

 

Will felt heat rise up from his collar into his cheeks. Even if that last comment had been meant in jest, it had hit its mark. Worse, she'd made it loudly enough for some of the guests at the adjacent tables to overhear. Will _felt_ their glances on his skin, his frayed sweater, his unruly hair: pity, derision, _poor man at a rich table, doesn't know what he's talking about, making a fool of himself._

 

Hannibal eyed him over the rim of the wine glass, smiling faintly. “I hope you didn't take offence.”

 

Will hadn't just taken offence, he was suddenly furious. On any other day, he might have laughed it off, ignored it, but not today. Not after the crap with Kade Purnell and the FBI, the invasion of his house, Crawford all but ordering him to keep his head down. With exaggerated precision, Will set his silverware down, fishing for his wallet. He should have heeded his first impression, that _Mischa's_ wasn't very inviting, and gone home to order a pizza.

 

“Mister Graham?”

 

The price of the meal had been listed at $75. He hadn't bothered to check the price of the wines; this was supposed to have been a _treat_.

 

Hannibal leaned toward him, keeping his voice low now, meant only for Will's ears. “Mister Graham, please.”

 

Will tucked two folded bills under the edge of his plate, a hundred and a twenty. Probably – maybe – way more than he owed, but whatever. Hannibal or Bedelia could use his money to light a cigar, for all he cared. And then they could shove that cigar -

 

He rose, grabbing his jacket. “Have a nice evening.” _And thanks for ruining mine._

 

-

 

At home, Will googled _Mischa's_.

 

He wasn't above being a vindictive asshole, given enough of a cause, and he did work for Baltimore's largest newspaper. Even if _he_ wasn't going to write anything, he knew people who would; Abel Gideon, for example, known for his scathing critiques of Baltimore's restaurant scene, always on the lookout for a new place to tear into.

 

He'd only begun his search when his cellphone buzzed on the table, showing Nicholas Boyle's number.

 

Five minutes later, Will was on the way to Mount Vernon, thoughts about _Mischa's_ , Hannibal Lecter and that barkeeper, Bedelia, fading from his mind.

 

-

 

 


	2. 2.

**2.**

 

Crawford manifested next to Will's desk. “I thought I told you to go home. Christ, Will. It's six in the morning. Tell me you weren't here all night.”

 

Will dimly remembered Price, who tended to stay very late, telling him to go the fuck home. That had been hours ago. He glanced at the window. Bright morning sunlight was rolling over the nearby office buildings and skyscrapers. It was Monday already. “Oh.”

 

“Yeah, _oh_.” Crawford sighed heavily. He took a look at the screen of Will's computer and groaned. “Will...”

 

“It's not a Ripper murder.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“The Ripper murders have...elegance. Grace. They're performances.” Will stretched over the back of his chair, trying to work a kink out of his spine. “This is just butchery and mockery.” He could barely contain his own disappointment.

 

“How do you _know_?”

 

Will looked at his boss. “Do you _really_ want to know what I see when I close my eyes?”

 

Crawford was a big man, broad-shouldered, the immovable rock in the sea that was the _Baltimore Sun's_ newsroom. Discomfort sat on his face like a square peg in a round hole. He gazed back for a long moment, then rose. “I'll make some coffee.”

 

While he was gone, Will decided on the picture he wanted to go with the article: a wide-angle shot of the house in Mount Vernon where Stacy Cameron, mother of two, divorced, successful real estate agent, had been found with her abdomen slashed open and her reproductive organs – roughly, crudely – removed.

 

 _Butchery_.

 

According to Detective Boyle, the forensic guys had found said organs distributed all over the house, in Stacy's make-up articles, like they could be painted back on.

 

 _Mockery_.

 

The Chesapeake Ripper was all about mockery, but he wasn't a butcher. He was better than that.

 

Crawford returned with two steaming mugs. “You know, you're not making any friends, getting slapped on the wrist and then going right back in. You think the FBI isn't going to get involved in that one?”

 

They already were. When Will arrived in Mount Vernon, the place had been stuffed to the brim with feds and their big, black government SUVs. He'd had to meet Detective Boyle a few blocks away from the Cameron house so he wouldn't be spotted, and then spent hours in a little all-night diner, waiting for the call that the coast was clear.

 

Will took a sip of coffee, wincing at the taste. Crawford believed in industrial strength. “I have two options: I let the FBI intimidate me, or I keep doing my job and _maybe_ my articles help catch these bastards.”

 

“You could always work on something else,” Crawford pointed out.

 

“Like what, politics? Sports? This is what I'm good at.”

 

“Anyone ever tell you that it might not be good for _you_?”

 

Will scoffed. “I'm taking that as a rhetorical question. Are you gonna print this thing or not?”

 

Crawford scratched through his tiny goatee. “Maybe in a few days. Right now, Purnell is just waiting for you to -”

 

Will groaned. “It doesn't matter if the article goes up today or in a week, and you know it.”

 

“It matters to _me_. Nobody here wants the FBI breathing down our necks because you can't keep your ego in check!” Crawford snapped.

 

Beverly walked into the newsroom, headphones around her neck, catching the tail-end of Crawford's outburst. “Whoa. Bad time?”

 

Will said nothing; he was giving Crawford the evil eye. Crawford huffed. He pointed a finger at Will, rising and collecting his coffee cup. “I'll talk to Donald. I'm not promising anything. Go home, you zombie. I'll text you. And if I see your face around here again before that week is up...” He let the threat hang and left.

 

Beverly parked her butt on the edge of Will's desk. She peered at his eyes. “Yeah, zombie is right. Want me to drive you home?”

 

“I'll be fine.”

 

She didn't look convinced, but didn't press it. Will started packing up his stuff. He thought about mentioning how his trip to _Mischa's_ had turned out, then decided not to. He could imagine the way Beverly's face would fall if he told her he hadn't had a good time. She was one of the few people he genuinely liked, kind of like a sister he'd never had. Her offers of an open ear and companionship weren't just empty phrases.

 

Will headed for the door of the newsroom. “See you in a week, Bev.”

 

She snorted, snagging his cup of coffee. “That's what you said yesterday.”

 

-

 

This time though, Will meant it: he was so tired it was a miracle he didn't end up in a ditch during the drive home. When he got back to his house on the far outskirts of Wolf Trap, every movement felt like he had sand in his joints. The dogs mobbed him, demanding attention. He nearly fell asleep petting them, and after setting out filled food and water bowls on the porch, let them out into the yard. The weather was good. They'd be fine for a few hours.

 

Will slept deeply and dreamlessly, woke once around noon when a rabbit or some other small animal made the dogs go ballistic. He went to piss, chugged down some tap water, and curled back up on the bed in the study. The nightmares started then: kaleidoscopic scenes of places he'd been to, people he'd interviewed. Slowly, the imagery took on a darker, softer tint; he was walking down a wide corridor, nothing behind him, nothing in front, no start, no end, and he knew something was following him, soft-footed and _hungry_.

 

Every time he walked faster, the thing behind him did, too. It stopped when he did. It had all the time in the world.

 

The sound of the dogs' barking woke him again. Disoriented, Will needed a moment to find himself: bed, house, Wolf Trap. He could not remember if the faceless, nameless thing from the nightmare had eventually gotten him. When he stuck his head out the back door to check what had his pack so excited, Hannibal Lecter stood in his backyard, surrounded by seven wagging tails, the late Virginia summer sun painting the sky behind him in a riot of colours.

 

 _I'm still asleep_ , Will thought.

 

“Ah, Mister Graham.”

 

 _Or not_.

 

Hannibal carried a wicker basket covered with paisley-patterned cloth. The dogs trailed after him like excited puppies. Winston, the latest addition to the pack, ran past the others and nosed at Will's bare legs, reminding him that he stood there in nothing more than sweaty boxer shorts and a holey t-shirt. Hannibal gazed at him with raised eyebrows. “I hope this isn't a bad time.”

 

Will still hadn't computed Hannibal's presence. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I feel we've gotten off on the wrong foot.” Expectantly, Hannibal cocked his head. “May I come in?”

 

“How do you even know where I live?”

 

“Google. May I come in?”

 

Caught entirely on the wrong foot, Will stepped back and held the door before he could think better of it. He was tempted to pinch himself to make sure he really wasn't dreaming. Hannibal wore a narrow, black suit, black shirt, black tie, and looked completely out of place amid the general, homely messiness of the study.

 

He was watching Will with an expression of mild concern. “You're sweat-soaked. I hope you aren't sick.”

 

“No, just...I didn't sleep well.”

 

“Oh. So I did wake you. I'm sorry.” Gently, Hannibal jiggled the basket. “Why don't you show me where your kitchen is and go freshen up while I take care of this?”

 

Will eyed the basket. “And this is?”

 

“Dinner. It just needs to be reheated. I trust you have a microwave. Or a stove.”

 

Will had both; that wasn't the point. Maybe on some other planet, or in an alternate reality, it was perfectly all right to barge in on strangers and ask to use their kitchen. “No offence, but what is _any_ of this?”

 

“This being...?”

 

“You. Here.”

 

“An apology. I'm afraid I wasn't on my best behaviour when we met.”

 

“It's okay.”

 

“I was intolerably rude, and you didn't even finish your dinner yesterday. Please let me make it up to you. An hour of your time, at most.”

 

Will hesitated. He was so not prepared for this.

 

Hannibal gave him a hopeful look.

 

 _Fuck_. Will snagged a pair of Jeans from the floor, pulling them on. “This way.”

 

Will's house was an assembly of the worn-and-comfortable, furniture he'd taken over from the old owners, stuff he'd bought without bothering to check if it fit in with what was already there. He simply didn't care if the rug matched the wallpaper or if the floorboards were worn and scratched. The idea of Hannibal experiencing culture shock, faced with ancient kitchen appliances and the haphazard collection of cutlery, was oddly appealing.

 

To Will's disappointment, Hannibal showed no signs that any of it bothered him. He took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and began to unpack the contents of the basket. _More like a Bag of Holding_ , Will thought, eyeing the growing mountain of Tupperware containers neatly lined up on the counter. “Need help?”

 

“No, thank you.” Hannibal's gaze landed somewhere in the vicinity of Will's chest, flicked away again just as quickly. “You'd be more comfortable in a fresh shirt, don't you think?”

 

If Hannibal thought Will was going to leave him alone in here, he had another think coming. He was the one intruding on Will's personal space, he could damn well deal with a few sweat stains. “I'm fine.”

 

“As you wish. Have a seat, Mister Graham. This will only take a few minutes.”

 

The dogs were clustering around the counter, interested in the proceedings and the stranger in the house, the contents of the Tupperware containers. Will whistled at them, herding them to the door. They settled reluctantly. He took a seat at the table, turning so he could keep an eye on them. “Call me Will.”

 

“Will. Will _iam_?”

 

“Only my father calls me William, and only when we're butting heads.”

 

“Will, then.” Hannibal came over to the table and held his hand out. “Hannibal.”

 

They shook hands a second time.

 

More items emerged from the bottomless basket: napkins, silverware, a bottle of wine, glasses, even two dinner plates. Hannibal folded the napkins into something that ended up looking like fans and polished the glasses. Will felt inexplicably affronted by the plates, as if Hannibal had brought them along on the assumption that Will didn't own any.

 

Hannibal popped the plates into the ancient microwave, one after the other, then brought them over to the table. “I hope you're hungry.”

 

Will hadn't been, not until the scents of the warming meal reached him: garlic, meat, a note of sweetness he couldn't place. The meat had a glassy shine to it. The asparagus were all the same size and length, like they'd been cut with a ruler and then trimmed down. From what he'd seen of Hannibal so far, Will wouldn't have been surprised; the man was possessed of a strange neatness. Uneven stalks of asparagus would probably offend him.

 

Will turned the emerging snort of laughter into a clearing of the throat. The evening was taking on a decidedly surreal tinge. “Smells good. What is it?”

 

“Glazed breast of quail. The meat is marinaded in a mixture of honey and crushed garlic before it is prepared.” Hannibal beckoned at Will to start, pulling the cork of the wine bottle. “It tastes best fresh out of the pan.” He glanced at the stove, where a stack of old newspapers gathered dust on top of the iron grid. Will could _see_ the faint hint of disapproval on his face.

 

Hannibal poured the wine. “From Bedelia, by the way. It comes with apologies attached. She regrets the comment she made.”

 

It was always easy to regret something once the damage was already done. “'s okay.”

 

“In her defence...” Hannibal hesitated.

 

“Yes?”

 

“I don't want to offend you again.” Hannibal's gaze landed on Will's shirt again. “We sometimes have, ah, less than affluent guests, who eat and then leave without paying.”

 

Will blinked, floored. The implication was clear. “What, she thought I was some hobo trying to con you guys out of a free meal? Really?”

 

Hannibal winced. “That sweater you wore looked like a dog had chewed on it.”

 

“A dog did chew on it.” Will pointed at Buster. “That one.”

 

“Well. I'll just tell her that, shall I?” The corners of Hannibal's mouth were twitching. Will couldn't tell if he was trying to suppress a smile or a frown. “At any rate, it won't happen again. I strive to create an atmosphere of comfort and culinary pleasures in my establishment, and -”

 

“Wait a second. _Your_ establishment?”

 

Hannibal nodded.

 

“You own the restaurant?”

 

“A dream of mine finally come true, yes.”

 

“So you're not the cook?”

 

Now Hannibal did frown. “Chef, please.”

 

 _Nitpicker_. “Fine: chef.”

 

“It is a very important distinction.”

 

Will couldn't see it. Chef, cook – both prepared meals.

 

“To answer your question,” Hannibal continued, “I do cook, three times a week. The rest of the time, I am busy with the more organisational aspects.”

 

Will still had trouble imagining the other man wielding pans and pots. “And before _Mischa's_? Where'd you work?”

 

Hannibal smirked. “Your reporter is showing, Will.”

 

Will shrugged, unapologetic. “Force of habit.”

 

“Indeed. That inquisitive mind of yours has gotten you where you are today. Quite an achievement.”

 

“I write a crime column, that's hardly an achievement.”

 

“It's not what you write, it's how you write. I'm a bit of a crime buff myself, and I must say, your work has always fascinated me.”

 

Will didn't like the direction the conversation was taking. The waiter, Matthew, had told him that Hannibal was a 'fan'. “Just reporting what I see.”

 

Hannibal made a sound in the back of his throat. “That's not true though, is it? Or rather, not the whole truth. You have a very specific way of seeing things.”

 

“I'd rather not talk about how I see things.” Pointedly, Will ate a mouthful of asparagus.

 

“As you wish,” Hannibal acquiesced, seemingly unruffled. “Maybe next time.”

 

“Next time?” Will asked carefully.

 

“M-hm.”

 

“Next time as in...?”

 

“I'm hosting a small dinner party this Friday. I'd love to invite you.”

 

Will didn't even have to think about his answer. “Not a good idea.”

 

Hannibal appeared nonplussed. “May I ask why?”

 

Social gatherings were as close to hell as Will could imagine. His column and articles in the _Baltimore Sun_ had garnered him a dedicated following over the years, as well as attention from some of the gossip rags, other newspapers, and most recently, the FB-fucking-I. Will tried not to pay too much attention to it; by now, though, he was more than well-acquainted with the side-effects of his 'fame'. As soon as people realized he was the _Sun's_ page six guy who thought about killing others for a living, they inevitably ended up trying to make him perform his 'trick', like he was some kind of a zoo animal. He could think of few _worse_ ways to spend his time.

 

He also hadn't forgotten that for all his flawless politeness and contrition _today_ , Hannibal had looked like he'd enjoyed himself a great deal yesterday evening, at Will's expense. “I wouldn't be good company.”

 

“I find your company rather engaging.”

 

“Maybe I don't find _you_ all that engaging.”

 

Silence.

 

Hannibal grinned. “I see that it will take more than one dinner to earn your forgiveness. Challenge accepted.”

 

Will stared at him, brought up short. He'd expected the other man to flounce off in a tiff. “You don't take no for an answer, do you?”

 

“I do. When I'm told _no_. You said it wouldn't be a good idea. And I disagree.” Hannibal speared a stalk of asparagus. “If I can't entice you to come to the dinner party on Friday, then maybe some other time?”

 

Chances were, once they were done with this 'apology dinner', and Hannibal's conscience was appeased, Will would never hear from him again. “Sure.”

 

-

 

Hannibal drove a Bentley. It fit right in with the expensive watch, the expensive clothes, the polished leather shoes.  After the car and its driver were gone from sight,  Will woke the laptop from hibernation and began a search. There wasn't much on  _Mischa's_ , just a few reviews on food blogs, an entry in Baltimore's online yellow pages and a some restaurant guides. 'Hannibal Lecter', on the other hand, yielded an astonishing seventy pages worth of results, and the further down Will got the list, the higher his eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. 

 

A  lineage website on European nobility traced the Lithuanian Lecter family back to the 12 th century.  In the 1970's, during the crackdown on dissidents, they'd been extinguished in the  _gulags_ of Russia. Hannibal was, as far as Will could glean from the website, the last of his line. He had attained American citizenship 25 years ago. There was very little information about his life prior to that, only a mention of a boarding school in Paris. 

 

_ Count  _ Hannibal Lecter  was also  a staple ingredient of Baltimore's upper crust,  in so far that he was a member of the Baltimore Symphony Board and regularly attended galas, ballroom dances, museum and gallery openings, and other, similar venues where the rich and famous gathered. Will found a good fifty or so photos showing Hannibal with a glass of champagne in hand, in the company of men and women he vaguely recognized from Zeller's celebrity stories. Nothing on where Hannibal had worked prior to opening  _ Mischa's _ , or if he'd worked at all.  His dinner parties were the stuff of legend.  He didn't appear to be married; if he had relationships, he had them discreetly. 

 

Hannibal appeared to be quite the social butterfly, and if his parties were anything like what Will had seen in the pictures, then he was more than glad he'd said no to that.

 

-

 

On Tuesday, Crawford sent him a text that simply read 'okay'. The _Baltimore Sun_ printed the article on the murder in Mount Vernon on Wednesday, two full days after the other papers had already run the story.

 

In the evening, Nicholas Boyle came by. Will had made the young detective's acquaintance during the Minnesota Shrike case. At the time, Boyle had been living in Bloomington, Garret Jacob Hobb's home town. His younger sister had been Hobbs' third victim. Boyle had moved away from Bloomington after Hobbs' arrest, transferring to Baltimore. He and Will had stayed in contact. Whenever he thought a case could be right up Will's alley, he called. It wasn't a friendship they shared, rather a professional interest to see the other succeed.

 

They sat on the back porch, a pack of cheap beer between them. Will had an inkling what this visit was about. Boyle petted Winston. “We have to stop. For a while.”

 

“Bosses giving you trouble?”

 

“Internal Affairs is investigating rumours that someone's letting civilians into scenes. Your name was mentioned. So far, mine _wasn't_ , and I'd like to keep it that way.”

 

It wasn't enough that the FBI had confiscated all of Will's materials on the Chesapeake Ripper. Purnell was trying to dry him out completely, and she'd instinctively gone for where it hurt: access. Without access to the scenes, it would be a lot harder to put himself into the minds of the killers. Will wanted to argue, but he remembered Crawford's accusation of letting his ego get the better of him. This wasn't just about him and what he needed. Boyle could lose his job if they found out what he was doing. The detective was just as invested in their clandestine operation as Will was.

 

“Okay. I understand.”

 

“Sorry, Will.” Boyle looked like he _was_ sorry. “I'll give you a call when things have cooled down.”

 

They had little else to talk about besides murder. After Boyle was gone, Will went into his study. Doctor Bloom's card was still stuck between the ears of the little dog statue on the sideboard. He plucked it up, turned it between his fingers. She wanted to 'pick his brain'. Just the thought made him want to squirm. Who knew what diagnosis Bloom and her colleagues would come up with, if he let them in.

 

He put the card back. He wasn't that desperate yet.

 

-

 

On Sunday morning, Will packed sandwiches, dog food, and his fly-fishing gear. His favourite spot was near Bear Island, where a tributary of the Potomac became a gentle current flanked by old trees, off the hiking trails and away from the sightseeing spots. Something about wading into the quiet of the stream, far removed from the trappings of civilisation, called to him; he felt at peace there, alone with the wind and the whispering water, just his thoughts and the dogs for company.

 

It was late when he returned home. Will didn't notice anything amiss until he headed for the kitchen with the bucket full of trout he'd caught. He felt the cool draft from somewhere inside the house at the same time that he noticed the dogs' strange behaviour, tails low, ears back. Slowly and carefully, he crept through each room until he discovered the source of the draft in the study: the back door stood open. There were no signs of ransacking, of anyone going through his stuff. The new laptop was where he'd left it, in plain sight on the desk by the bay window.

 

Will inspected the back door. He knew with certainty that he'd locked up before he left this morning, and the lock didn't look like it had been tampered with.

 

His good mood evaporated. He felt _unsettled_. This was worse than when the FBI had invaded his privacy, his sanctuary. At least _they_ had made their presences known, leaving chaos behind, something tangible. Whoever had broken in today had left no traces, but Will felt them, sensed them, like someone's breath on the back of his neck, a spectre hanging on the edge of his peripheral vision, gone when he turned his head.

 

He returned to the kitchen, debating whether or not he should call the police, and saw the dogs clustered together by the table. Buster, easily the most inquisitive and impulsive of the bunch, had jumped up on a chair and now stood with his front legs on the table, tail wagging so furiously his entire hindquarters were jiggling, nose aimed at a dinner plate.

 

Will's blood ran cold when he saw what was on the plate. In a flash of insight, he understood. _You haven't taken anything. You left me something._ He grabbed Buster before the dog could get to it, and then stood and stared, stomach twisting itself into knots, at the pair of beautifully blue human eyes, complete with optic nerve still attached, that stared back at him.

 

-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much ignoring most of Hannibal's back story, except for some key points.


	3. 3.

**3.**

 

Wolf Trap's sheriff looked at the dinner plate for ten seconds. Then he stalked out, cellphone at his ear. The deputy he'd brought along turned decidedly green around the gills and made gagging noises.

 

Will showed the young man where the bathroom was, then went outside and sat on the porch steps to wait for the cavalry to arrive. The FBI came in three large SUVs and a van. Kade Purnell was among them. Will ignored her and watched the forensics team suit up. If he'd made different choices – if he'd been just that little bit _better_ fifteen years ago – he could have been one of them. He'd been harbouring dreams about university and an FBI badge of his own when he applied to the police academy, back when he still lived in New Orleans. His dreams had shattered on the sharp edges of psychological entrance exams and two hours with a shrink.

 

He forced his thoughts in another direction. That way lay depression and looking to deeply into bottles.

 

Eyes. At his home.

 

You couldn't shout _See? See?_ any louder than by leaving someone a pair of eyeballs. But was he supposed to look, or was he supposed to look _away_?

 

This wasn't the first time he received a questionable gift. After Garret Jacob Hobbs' arrest, a man from Florida had sent him a butcher's hook. Then there was the woman from Norfolk, whose gift of lingerie and condoms had been a source of amusement at the _Sun's_ newsroom for weeks. For almost every murder he wrote about, there was someone who thought it would be funny to send him something that reminded of the case: screwdrivers, glass shards, knives, bullet casings, blindfolds, pieces of ropes.

 

No one had laughed about the locks of hair and bundles of thin bones that arrived after Will covered the Elkridge Stalker, who had killed four little girls. The bones turned out to be from a chicken, but the hair had been human. They'd never found out who sent it, or whom the hair belonged to.

 

Whoever had left him this gift had watched the house long enough to see him drive off with the dogs. They'd spent enough time in the kitchen to find one of Will's better dining plates, kept in the back of the cupboard, and there was no telling which other rooms they'd been in, touching his things, invading the spaces that were sacred to him. He was more upset by the invasion than the 'gift', now that the shock had faded; Will had seen worse over the course of his career than a pair of disembodied eyeballs.

 

Kade Purnell came up to the porch. “Why am I not surprised to meet you again so soon?”

 

“I could've done without seeing any of you guys ever again, believe me.”

 

“I suppose you already have a theory about who sent you the eyes.”

 

“Nope.” Will scooted to the side to let a man and a woman in white plastic suits pass. “Could have been anyone.”

 

“Not the Ripper?”

 

“Why would the Ripper leave me anything?”

 

“You tell me, Mister Graham. You're the Ripper expert.”

 

“I'm not sure I want to be talking to you at all without a lawyer present.”

 

She crossed her arms, looking past him into the house. “I had a long talk with Doctor Bloom the other day. She's convinced you have a talent for getting into the minds of killers.”

 

Will allowed himself a bitter smile. “If you didn't think the same, you wouldn't have confiscated my work.”

 

“I'm convinced that your work is going to get you into trouble by attracting the wrong attention.” Purnell nodded at the house. “Whether or not this is the Ripper's doing, someone broke into your house. If you'd been home, you could have been killed. Someone _was_ killed in order to leave you that 'gift'.”

 

“You think I don't _know_ that?”

 

“I think you don't know when to stop. I think you're completely ignorant of the danger you're already in.”

 

She had a point there. Will definitely had _someone's_ attention.

 

Purnell sighed. “Was this the Ripper or not?”

 

The Chesapeake Ripper killed to express disdain. His victims were flies he'd swatted, pests he'd gotten rid of. He turned them into messages and works of art; Will had never actually laid eyes on any of the victims, but the crime scenes were theatre stages, carefully chosen and meticulously constructed. The Ripper would devote just as much attention to detail to the centre pieces. In comparison, a pair of eyeballs on a dinner plate seemed _quaint_. The Ripper wouldn't bother with something so mundane. “No,” Will said with conviction, “it wasn't him.”

 

“You're sure.”

 

“If the Ripper had taken offence at anything I wrote, it would be _my_ eyes on that plate. Or maybe my fingers.” He mimed typing, shrugged. “This was someone who wants me to look.”

 

“At what?”

 

“Something they've done. Something they will do. I don't know.”

 

Purnell looked disgusted. “So it's someone eager for media attention.”

 

Not the _media's_ attention. Just one person's. Will almost said so.

 

Purnell shot him a narrow-eyed look. “I hope you're not actually considering doing them that favour.”

 

Will shrugged again; if there was another murder, he'd write about it. It was his job.

 

-

 

Beverly's rusty Toyota rumbled up the street two hours later. Will met her at the edge of the police tape surrounding his house and the back yard. He would have preferred not to involve her, but the man at Wolf Trap's taxi service had only laughed when Will told him he needed to transport seven dogs. Wide-eyed, Beverly took in the horde of forensic techs crawling over every inch of his property. “Wow. I thought you were exaggerating. What happened?”

 

There really wasn't any other way to put it than, “Someone broke in and left me a pair of eyeballs.”

 

The amusement slipped off Beverly's face. “You're kidding me.”

 

Will shook his head. “I'll explain later. I need your help. I need to get the dogs out of here.” He glared at a cop veering in their direction. “And _I_ need to get out of here, too.”

 

Beverly looked ten kinds of disturbed. “You wanna pack a bag or something?”

 

Out of spite or in an effort to be thorough, Purnell had declared Will's entire house a crime scene. “I'm not allowed to take anything.”

 

“What, seriously? Not even your car? Damn. Okay, let's scram. Katz Taxi, at your service.”

 

Somehow, they managed to fit all seven dogs into the Toyota. They drove to Mrs. Dutch, Will's nearest neighbour. Whenever Will had to leave for a couple of days, she looked after his pack; he felt bad, dropping in on her unannounced and asking for even more help. She listened to his _very_ abbreviated explanation of what was going on at his house with raised eyebrows, then patted him on the arm. “Of course they can stay here, dear.”

 

While Mrs. Dutch went inside to make a call to Wolf Trap's grocery store to have dog food delivered today, Will knelt amid his pack. They were confused and agitated. He petted them, tried to calm them down, apologized silently. For the second time in a week, their world had been turned upside down.

 

Beverly watched. “How long until you can go back home?”

 

“They'll let me know. Purnell said something about three to four days.”

 

“That long?”

 

“They're going to dust every surface in every room for prints.”

 

“Where are _you_ going to stay in the meantime?”

 

“Hotel, I thought.”

 

“I have a couch with your name on it, if you want it.”

 

Beverly lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment by the Inner Harbour, middle of Baltimore. Just the thought of staying there for more than one day made Will feel claustrophobic. “You know I love you, Bev, but...”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” She grinned good-naturedly. “So, hotel?”

 

“Yeah. Something close to work.”

 

She snapped her fingers. “I know just the place.”

 

Will tucked a fifty-dollar note into Mrs. Dutch's hand when she returned from making the call. This month was turning into hell on his bank account. Luckily, he didn't have many expenses other than his car and the dogs.

 

On the drive to Baltimore, Beverly kept shooting him sidelong glances. “Eyeballs, people breaking in, the FBI setting up permanent residence in your house... Maybe writing about something else isn't such a bad idea.”

 

“Don't worry about me.”

 

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “That's what friends _do_ , Will.”

 

“I can't just stop.”

 

“That's what my dad said when they told him to stop smoking.”

 

“It's not an addiction.”

 

“Then stop.”

 

Will thought about stopping. The answer was simple, he couldn't.

 

Maybe it was an addiction. For all the nightmares he had, the sick, slick feeling of _others_ in his mind, part of him did enjoy the chase, the process of sinking into a set of foreign thoughts.

 

Maybe Crawford was right, too. Maybe Will's ego played a far greater role than he liked to admit. He hadn't made it into the police academy or into the FBI, but in his own way, he was _better_ than the FBI profilers, he was _right_ about what he wrote in his articles, and no psychological exams or know-it-all shrinks could take that away from him.

 

-

 

The hotel Beverly dropped him off at was a bit on the pricey side, but at a brisk, twenty-minute-walk distance to the _Baltimore Sun_ , he would at least be spared having to use public transport to get to work. After checking in – he booked the room for a week, just to be on the safe side – Will went out to buy the bare necessities.

 

In a book store on Hannover Street, someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi, Mister Graham.”

 

Will almost didn't recognize Matthew. It wasn't just the different, far less formal clothes he was wearing that threw off Will's memory. “What happened to your face?”

 

“Nothing serious. Just a brawl.”

 

The bruises were fresh; they were only just beginning to turn blue. Matthew had scratches, too. Will fitted an imaginary hand to them and felt a frisson of unease; those were defensive scratches made by someone trying to ward the other man off.

 

Matthew ran a finger down the spine of a book. “You caused a bit of a scandal at _Mischa's_.”

 

“Because I walked out?”

 

“On the boss himself.” Matthew grinned mischievously. “Don't think that ever happened to him. You should've seen his face.”

 

“Not fond of Hannibal, I take it.”

 

Matthew threw him an odd glance. “You are?”

 

Will honestly hadn't wasted another thought on Hannibal Lecter. “Can't say I really know him.” He hesitated; the scratches on Matthew's face were kindling his imagination, sending his thoughts scurrying down a maze of labyrinthine, murky pathways. “Want to go for a beer? I'm done here.”

 

Matthew lit up. “Sounds good.”

 

They ended up in a small place near the waterfront. Will stacked his bags on the bench, watching Matthew as he wove his way through the other customers to the bar. Something about the other man had been rubbing Will the wrong way the first time they met – now that feeling was amplified. It all fit a little _too_ well. What were the odds of eyeballs turning up at Will's place and Matthew sporting defensive wounds; what were the odds of them running across each other in that one book store out of dozens in the area, on a day when Will wasn't even supposed to be in Baltimore?

 

Matthew returned, bearing two bottles of beer. “Great article on that Mount Vernon murder, by the way. I've always wondered how you do it.”

 

Will peeled the edge of the label off his bottle. “Do what?”

 

“Getting into the minds of those killers.”

 

“I have an active imagination.”

 

“That's all it takes?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

Matthew rubbed at his chin. “Does it only work on killers, or can you do everyone?”

 

If he hadn't been interested in learning more about the other man, Will would have steered the conversation in another direction by now; depending on his mood, he might have just gotten up and left.

 

Matthew winced, interpreting Will's pause correctly. “Sorry. I guess that's the kind of question everyone asks.”

 

“It's fine. I just don't like to talk about it, that's all.” Will took a sip of beer. “It's not all that exciting.”

 

“I think it's great, what you do.”

 

“That's not what most people think.”

 

“Most people are idiots. If there were more like you, there'd be less crime.”

 

“Then I'd be out of a job.”

 

Matthew smirked. “Someone's always going to want to kill someone else. It's human nature.”

 

Will was convinced Matthew had left him the eyeballs. He had no reason nor any proof; pure conjecture, but Will knew he was right because he was never wrong about these things. The question was, why. If it was a taunt, then sitting here and drinking beer together was another taunt right on top of it.

 

Will took him up on it, put himself in the other man's shoes.

 

Matthew was cocky, arrogant. _Most people are idiots_. He worked a job he didn't care for, for a boss he cared for even less. His interests lay elsewhere _._ The job was a cover, an activity that allowed him to uphold appearances. Restaurants made for an ideal victim pool, if one was inclined to prey on the rich.

 

The bar _shivered_ around Will, corners and angles skewed. His thoughts scattered.

 

Matthew eyed him. “You okay, Mister Graham?”

 

Will blew out a breath, waiting for his stomach to settle. He hadn't had anything to eat since this morning, and now it was late afternoon. Maybe the beer hadn't been such a good idea. “Just tired. Sorry, but I think I'll have to cut this short.”

 

“Nothing to be sorry for. I'm happy you spared me the time.” Matthew checked his watch. “I should get ready for work, anyway. I've got to open today.”

 

Outside the bar, Will felt even worse. The bright sunlight and the noise of the cars assaulted his senses. The sidewalk under his feet felt like it was made from rubber, giving under his weight. Clutching his shopping bags, he leaned against a wall.

 

Matthew watched him, hands in his pockets. “You sure you're okay?”

 

The question sounded sincere, but when Will looked up, he saw nothing in Matthew's eyes except for cold, detached interest. _The beer_ , Will thought. _He put something in the beer_. He dropped the bags, fumbling for his cellphone. Matthew stepped closer and took a hold of his wrist, taking the phone away from Will's nerveless fingers.

 

“Don't fight it,” he murmured. “And please don't make a scene.”

 

Will tried to shout for help. He only managed a wheeze, dry and pitiful. The world turned grey around the edges, then black. The last thing Will was consciously aware of was Matthew ducking under his arm, holding him up against the wall.

 

-

 

The darkness split down the middle suddenly and completely with a meaty crack of skin on skin. Will felt the strain in his neck before he felt the stinging pain in his cheek. He tasted blood. Matthew towered over him, theatrically shaking out his hand. “Sorry. I want you awake for this.”

 

Will recognized the small lamps, shaped like old oil lanterns. One hung directly above him, unlit. _Mischa's_ looked gloomy and indistinct with the only light coming through a narrow gap between the curtains in front of the windows.

 

He worked his jaw side to side. He lay on one of the tables – the table he'd sat at last Sunday. His arms were pulled behind his back, wrists tied together with something that was already chaffing, fingers and hands turning numb from the constriction of his blood flow. “Wha -” He coughed, throat dry and aching. “What did you give me?”

 

“Good, old-fashioned rohypnol. A little common, but it works.” Matthew hopped up onto the bar, swinging his legs. “I'm disappointed, Mister Graham. Man of your talents...I thought it'd be harder, getting you. I thought you'd _see_ me coming.”

 

“You left me the eyeballs.”

 

“Sure did. Did you like them?”

 

“Who did you kill to get them?”

 

“Some hooker. I didn't ask her name.” Matthew made an amused sound. “That makes me a garden variety killer, doesn't it? Going for hookers. Preying on the weak. Boring. Normal. Would you still write about me?”

 

Will forced himself to calm down. The drug was still coursing through his system, numbing his mind. He had to keep Matthew talking. Self-recrimination could come later. For now, staying alive was the goal. “Going to be hard to write anything when I'm dead.”

 

Matthew clucked his tongue. “Well, that's going to be a problem, then.”

 

Panic was only kept at bay by sheer disbelief. Did Matthew honestly think he could get away with murdering Will here, at his place of work? Someone at the bar would remember them drinking together. Someone would remember seeing Matthew drag Will to a car, or into a cab. People were really good at ignoring the obvious until it ended up being front page news; someone had seen _something_ and they would remember.

 

Matthew hopped off the bar and sauntered over to the table. “Any last words?”

 

“You're insane,” Will said flatly, “if you think you'll get away with this.”

 

“Who says I want to get away with it?”

 

“You _want_ to get caught?”

 

Matthew spread his arms and grinned. “I'll be doing the world a favour. Who cares what happens after. Have you ever seen smaller birds mob a hawk on a wire? You're one of those small birds, picking and fluttering, fighting to push the hawk off, to make it flee.”

 

“I take it you're the hawk.”

 

“One of many. And they'll all thank me. They'll all know my name.”

 

“Let's see what their gratefulness does when you're sitting in solitary confinement in a mental hospital for the rest of your life. Nobody is going to care about your name.”

 

“I'll be the man who killed Will Graham.”

 

Will snorted. “Like I'm important.”

 

“But you are. Twelve out of twelve killers you wrote about were caught because you wrote about them.”

 

“Eleven.”

 

“Ah, yes: the Chesapeake Ripper. Almost forgot about that one.”

 

Will assessed his limited options. His hands were bound, his legs were free. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck. Even if he made it to the door of the restaurant, it was probably locked. He could attempt to throw himself through a window and pray he wasn't going to slice open anything important in the process, or impale himself on the shards.

 

Matthew pursed his lips. “I always wondered why _he_ never went for you. You wrote about him the most.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded army knife and casually flicking it open. “Maybe he'll write to _me_ and thank me for what I've done. Good bye, Mister Graham.”

 

 _I'm not going to die here_ , Will swore to himself. Adrenaline and anger coalesced into strength. Matthew approached from the side, eyes fixed on Will's middle. He was probably planning to eviscerate him – a painful, slow death. Will rolled at the last moment, feeling the bite of the blade as it glanced off his side, cut open his hip and sank into his arm above his elbow. He ignored the pain and continued rolling off the table, to his feet.

 

Matthew looked perplexed, then annoyed. “Let's not make this more difficult than it has to be.”

 

“Fuck you!” Will snarled, retreating until he felt the wall at his back.

 

When Matthew was within reach, he propelled himself forward. The knife sank deep this time, unavoidable, as they collided. Will _felt_ the scrape of the edge of the blade over ribs and rammed his head forward. Matthew reacted instinctively, yanking his head back to avoid having his nose crushed.

 

Will didn't think, just saw the opening and went for it, latching onto the front of Matthew's throat.

 

He bit down as hard as he could. Blood spurted into his mouth, cartilage crunched between his teeth. Matthew screamed. His hands scrabbled between them, pushing and clawing, but Will _had_ him, and Will didn't let go until Matthew's screams turned into wet gargles.

 

-

 

At one point, Will became aware he was crouched over a corpse. He had a chunk of flesh in his mouth. His jaws were aching when he spit it out. The corpse had a ragged hole where the Adam's apple used to be and held a bloody knife in one hand. Will looked down at himself, vision doubling and tripling, every movement agony. On the right side, between the last ribs, a vertical tear in his shirt was steadily oozing blood. He tried to reach for the small hole to stem the flow, but his hands wouldn't budge. Slowly, he succumbed to gravity, sagging to the side. The jarring impact when he hit the floor opened a chasm in his mind, promising oblivion and relief. Without hesitation, he stepped over the edge and let himself fall.

 

-

 


	4. 4.

**4.**

 

Fleeting impressions: the prickly scratch of carpet against his cheek, the changing of the light, a voice coming from a long distance away. Pain. Faces swam in and out of the fog, blank like theatre masks, comedy and tragedy. Someone called his name.

 

Blessed nothing for a while. Eventually, a rhythmic sound drew his attention, called him to him in the fog.

 

Will opened his eyes to a white ceiling and white walls. Thin white curtains hung in front of a window on the far side of the room. The air smelled of disinfectants and copper. The sound came from a machine next to him. _ECG._ Electrocardiograph.

 

He was in a hospital.

 

He was not alone.

 

Turning his head took a gargantuan effort. Uncomprehending, Will looked at the hand clasped over his own.

 

In a chair next to the hospital bed, Hannibal Lecter, asleep: shirt creased and open at the collar, cuffs stained maroon. He looked worn. A book lay splayed open over his thigh, in danger of sliding to the floor. He cut a far less formidable figure with his chin tucked down and his face slack in sleep.

 

 _That's my blood_ , Will thought, looking at the dark stains on Hannibal's cuffs, and sank back under.

 

-

 

When he woke again, the room lay in soft shadows. It was late evening or early morning. The window was wide open, allowing a faint breeze to chase away the smell of hospital and sickness. Every lungful of air set off a twinge in his ribs, the pain dulled by powerful medication.

 

He curled his fingers, but they curled around nothing. The chair next to the bed was empty.

 

-

 

Doctors came and went. Will heard phrases like 'nicked stomach' and 'kidney damage' and 'full recovery'. They were keeping him on the good drugs. His dreams were odysseys. He slept and woke with the taste of blood on his tongue and the sound of Matthew's panicked gargles in his ears.

 

-

 

At the end of the first week, he was deemed fit to receive visitors. He expected Beverly, but it was Purnell who stepped into his room on Friday afternoon. Will's mood spiralled downward. “Spare me.”

 

Purnell shrugged. “Someone has to take your statement.”

 

Will had been hoping for someone from Baltimore PD. He'd just about had enough of the FBI interfering in his life. It wasn't like they were even needed in this case. Matthew was dead and therefore caught, and there was no mystery to how Will had survived.

 

“The sooner this is done, the sooner you'll be rid of me,” Purnell pointed out.

 

“ _Will_ I ever be rid of you?”

 

“I told you, you'd attract the wrong attention. Look where it got you.”

 

“Next you'll tell me not to wear a skirt so I won't get raped.”

 

“You got raped, to borrow your metaphor. If you hadn't been found in time, you'd be dead.”

 

Will glared. “Get to the point.”

 

Purnell pulled out a small recorder. “FBI Special Agent Kade Purnell, Badge Number 8891, conducting interview. Please state your full name and address.”

 

“William Graham, Wolf Trap, Virginia.”

 

“Mister Graham, I advise you that this interview will be recorded.”

 

“I consider myself advised.”

 

“Where did you meet Matthew Brown?”

 

“At a book store on Hannover Street. Sheldon's Books.”

 

“Any prior meetings?”

 

“Once. Sunday before last. He worked as a waiter at _Mischa's_. We spoke briefly  while I was having dinner there.”

 

“Tell me what happened last Sunday.”

 

Will snorted. “Before or after you guys practically evicted me from my home?”

 

Purnell sighed. “After.”

 

Will summed up the meeting at the book store and the visit to the bar afterwards. “I don't know how he got me to _Mischa's_.”

 

“In a cab. He told the driver you'd had one drink too many. What happened once you regained consciousness?”

 

“He taunted me. He told me he'd be doing the other hawks a favour by killing me.”

 

“Hawks?”

 

“That's how Matthew saw himself and the others. Other killers. Hawks on a wire.”

 

“What happened then?”

 

“He came at me with a knife. I defended myself.”

 

“With your teeth.”

 

“My hands were tied behind my back. I'm not some martial artist. I had no other options.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

Will shook his head. Purnell tapped the recorder against her palm, studying him. “So you had no idea at all that Matthew Brown was a killer?”

 

Will had been bracing himself for that question. “No.”

 

“You profile murderers by proxy, yet you miss the one having a beer with you?”

 

“I wasn't at my best. I was upset and angry.”

 

“At?”

 

“The horde taking over my house? The FBI breathing down my neck? Take your pick.”

 

Purnell considered the answer, then gave a short nod. “We finished the investigations at your house. We didn't find any fingerprints, but the DNA from the eyeballs matches DNA found at Brown's apartment. It's safe to assume he was the one who broke in.”

 

“What kind of DNA?”

 

“That's information you don't need to have.”

 

“He kept something from his victims, didn't he?”

 

“Again: information you don't need to have.”

 

She'd as much as said yes. Matthew had been a keeper of trophies. He could have gone on for years if he hadn't decided to immortalize his name. Will wondered at the reasons and the timing. If Matthew had been harbouring ideas to end him, why wait until their paths crossed merely by chance? It wasn't like Will was hard to find.

 

Purnell clicked off the recorder. “That will be all.”

 

There was a gap in Will's memory he hadn't yet been able to fill. “Do you know who found me?”

 

“The owner of the establishment where Brown worked.” Purnell consulted a small notebook. “Hannibal Lecter. He gave you first aid and called it in.”

 

Will tried to imagine Hannibal kneeling at the side of a corpse and one almost-corpse. He'd have gotten blood all over himself, Will's and Matthew's. He must have seen, too, what Will had done to Matthew, how he'd overcome his attacker. Maybe Hannibal had even tried to revive Matthew.

 

Purnell cleared her throat. “Any more questions?”

 

“What happens now?”

 

“Baltimore PD might have more questions, but as far as the FBI is concerned, it's an open and shut case.”

 

“I killed someone.”

 

“In self-defence.” Purnell waited a beat. “Mister Graham, since I apparently cannot stop you from sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, I'd appreciate it if you at least exercised more caution from now on. And before I forget it, Doctor Bloom is still waiting for your call. We'd like your input.”

 

“ _We_? What happened to threatening to arrest me?”

 

“I'd be happier if you'd never gotten involved. In this, or the Ripper case.” Purnell frowned down at her bag.

 

“But?”

 

“Like I said,” she said evasively, “I had a long talk with Doctor Bloom.”

 

After she was gone, Will tried to relax. Throughout the interview, he'd been waiting for the handcuffs to click shut around his wrists, for Purnell to arrest him for murder.

 

 _Self-defence_.

 

There'd been a moment when Matthew stopped trying to get at him and started fighting to get _away_ from him instead. There'd been a moment when it stopped being self-defence and became offence, when Will stopped being the victim and became the offender.

 

Even now, he didn't feel all that guilty. He felt... _happy_. He was alive. Matthew was dead.

 

Will had expected Purnell to sense that, the way he could sense it whenever he sneaked onto a crime scene: that stale remorselessness, that barbaric glee.

 

-

 

Beverly came by in the evening. A big, yellow balloon with a smiley face followed her into the room, bobbing gently in the air. With relish, she tied it to the railing at the foot end of Will's bed, grinning at his askance stare, and proceeded to the side of the bed.

 

She punched him, very lightly, in the shoulder. “That's for scaring the living daylights out of me.”

 

Will was honestly glad to see her. “Hey, Bev.”

 

Beverly pulled out her cellphone. “Your pack says hello. I figured you'd want to know how they are, so: they're fine. Mrs. Dutch says hello, too, by the way.”

 

She'd taken snapshots of each one of his dogs. Will scrolled through them, feeling a weight lift from his chest when he saw they looked well-fed and happy. There was even a picture of Mrs. Dutch kneeling next to Winston, holding up his paw like he was waving at the camera.

 

“You also owe me fifty bucks, for dog food,” Beverly announced, taking a seat on the side of Will's bed. “Mrs. Dutch ran out.”

 

Will gave the phone back. “My wallet's in -”

 

“I was kidding.”

 

Will studied her. “What's wrong?”

 

“Jesus, Will. You nearly bite the dust and you're asking me what's wrong?”

 

Will sank back into the pillows. “Sorry. I didn't do it on purpose.”

 

Beverly laughed, a short, ugly bark. “I'd be kicking your ass if you had.” She took a deep breath, staring down at her fingers, tightly clenched in her lap. Her eyes were treacherously wet. “Tell me this asshole didn't jump you five minutes after I left.”

 

“Bev. Hey.” Alarmed, Will groped for her hand. “None of this is your fault. Don't ever think that.”

 

It took her a few minutes to calm down. Jerkily, almost angrily, she wiped at her eyes. Will felt like the biggest heel in history. He was bad at comforting, so he just kept holding her hand until she squeezed and pulled away on her own.

 

“We thought you'd overslept or something, when you didn't come in on Monday morning.” Beverly smiled, watery. “We didn't even know something was wrong until the cops showed up. Donald had to sign some kind of statement that the _Sun_ wasn't going to cover the story, and so far, no other newspaper has picked it up. I guess the FBI has a lock on it?”

 

Will hadn't wasted a single thought on the world outside of his hospital room yet. Purnell hadn't mentioned anything during her visit earlier. If the FBI indeed had their thumb on the story – his story, he thought, uneasily – they'd done a remarkable job. Usually by now, reporters would have been clamouring at his door, eager for an exclusive interview.

 

Will didn't like the idea of having to be grateful for the FBI's intervention, when just two weeks ago he'd been all but frothing at the mouth over Purnell's seizing of all of his Chesapeake Ripper files.

 

“This is all so weird,” he muttered. “Normally, I'd be out there writing about...well, _me_.”

 

Beverly nodded. “Weird to be on the other side of the fence.”

 

“Yeah.” Will sighed. “That's gonna take some getting used to.”

 

“Don't. Get used to it, I mean. No one should get used to being the victim.”

 

Will was the victim, and yet he wasn't, and the more he thought about it, the more confusing it became. Some part of him even _liked_ what -

 

Carefully, he shook that thought off.

 

Beverly had been watching him quietly. “You're zoning out. Time for me to go?”

 

Will blinked at her. “Sorry.”

 

“Don't be.” She patted his knee. “Nobody expects you to be up and at'em. If they do, give me their name and address and I'll give them a piece of my mind.”

 

Will chuckled. She would do that, too.

 

Beverly rose. “Okay if I come visit again on the weekend? Maybe bring you some newspapers or something.” She looked around the room. “Not much to entertain you here.”

 

“Don't bring too much. The doctors said I could go home middle of next week.”

 

“Already?”

 

“It's just a stab wound.”

 

“ _Just_ a stab wound.” Beverly rolled her eyes. “Men.”

 

Will thought for a moment. “Could you tell the others -”

 

“That you're not really up for more visitors?” She shrugged. “That'll stop Zeller and Price. Not sure about Crawford, though.”

 

Will could handle Crawford, if he came to visit. Zeller and Price, combined, were something he could only take in small doses, even when he wasn't flat on his back in a hospital bed. “Thanks, Bev.”

 

At the door, she looked back over her shoulder. “You know...that conversation we had on the drive to Baltimore. About writing something else. Given any thought to it?”

 

“Not really.”

 

Beverly made an amused sound. She didn't _look_ amused. “Thought so.”

 

-

 

Crawford didn't visit. Will wasn't disappointed. They didn't have the kind of relationship that included bedside visits and invitations to family dinners. They had the kind of relationship that meant Crawford knew Will did best on his own, without constant company; they weren't friends, and they butted heads often enough, but Will was silently grateful for Crawford's tacit understanding and subsequent absence.

 

Hannibal didn't visit, either. That _was_ strangely disappointing. By now, Will could not say if he'd dreamed up the touch of Hannibal's hand on his, and if he had, what that said about his subconscious.

 

On Wednesday, one and a half weeks after the attack, Will was released from hospital. Beverly brought him clothes. She insisted on carrying all of Will's belongings, which fit into a single plastic bag, and hovered while he slowly lowered himself into the passenger seat of her car.

 

Will buckled himself in. “Bev, really: I'm fine.”

 

“Yeah, yeah.” She flipped him off. “Talk to the hand. The rest of me doesn't care.” They rolled out of the hospital parking lot. “Home, I assume?”

 

Will gnawed on his lip. “No. Pratt Street. There's something I need to do before I go home.”

 

The door to _Mischa's_ stood open when they arrived. A man in a blue worker's overall met them, carrying a length of rolled-up carpet. Inside, all the lights were on, and two more men in work clothing knelt between the bar and the table in the corner, cutting up the carpet there.

 

Beverly stood with hunched shoulders, hands shoved into her pockets. “That where...?”

 

“Yeah.” Will headed for the long bar, where a bored-looking brunette, probably Matthew's replacement, sat and watched over the workers. “Is Hannibal in?”

 

She looked him over. “And you are?”

 

“Will Graham. Just tell him I'm here. He knows who I am.”

 

She reached for the telephone. “One moment.”

 

Beverly looked around. “Isn't this the restaurant I recommended to you?” Will nodded. She groaned. “Great.”

 

Will knew what she was getting at. He drew her a little away from the bar and the workers. “Matthew Brown was a serial killer and quite likely more than a little deranged. He could've gotten me anywhere. It was pure coincidence that we ran into each other here.”

 

Beverly looked away. “That doesn't really make me feel better. It's just...fuck, I don't know. I feel responsible.”

 

Will nudged her shoulder. “You're not responsible for anything. Okay?”

 

She sighed. “Okay.”

 

After a few minutes of waiting, the door to the kitchen opened. Hannibal exchanged a quiet word with the waitress at the bar, then came toward Will and Beverly with a smile. He offered his hand to Beverly first. “Hannibal Lecter.”

 

“Beverly Katz.” They shook hands. Beverly gestured at the door. “I'll wait outside. Nice meeting you, Mister Lecter.”

 

“Likewise.” Hannibal watched her leave. Then he turned to Will. “It's good to see you. How are you?”

 

“Good.”

 

“I didn't expect you to be released so soon.”

 

On the drive here, Will had planned what he was going to say. Now all his carefully constructed phrases seemed meaningless, quaint. Hannibal had saved his life. Will felt grateful and indebted and above all, tongue-tied: how _did_ one express gratitude for something of this magnitude?

 

“I had this whole speech planned,” he said slowly, trying not to stare too obviously at Hannibal's pristinely clean cuffs. “Now I'm drawing a blank.”

 

Hannibal's lips twitched minutely. “There's no need for speeches. I did what anyone in my position would have done. In fact, I feel I should beg your forgiveness.”

 

Will frowned. “For?”

 

Hannibal spread his hands. “Matthew worked for me for years. I never suspected anything. If I'd known...”

 

Most serial killers lead completely normal lives, were pillars of the community, worked normal jobs. It was how they survived and thrived. No one ever suspected anything until it was too late and the corpses started piling up. Hannibal was no more to blame in this than Beverly.

 

“There's nothing you could have done. Don't beat yourself up over it.”

 

With a small, regretful sigh, Hannibal glanced at Will's midsection. “Easier said than done.”

 

One of the workers walked past them, carpet slung over his shoulder. He gave Will a curious look. Even the bored waitress seemed to have developed an interest in their conversation, leaning toward them in an effort to overhear.

 

Will gestured at the corner. “Sorry about the mess, by the way.”

 

Hannibal looked from the corner to Will. “Do better next time.”

 

Will blinked. “Excuse me?”

 

“It gave me quite a shock, finding you like this. I'd rather not have to go through that again.”

 

Will shifted from foot to foot. Maybe he was reading too much into this, but Hannibal was all but hovering over him at this point. “You were at the hospital. When I woke up.”

 

Hannibal's expression softened. “I was.”

 

The worker returned from outside, another man in tow.

 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal said, looking faintly pained, “we could continue this conversation another time. In a less crowded place. Shall we say, next week? I'd imagine you'll need a few days to settle back into your life.”

 

Maybe Will was reading too much into this, maybe he wasn't.

 

He dithered. Gave himself a little nudge, feeling the phantom touch of Hannibal's hand around his. Some of his assumptions about Hannibal's character had changed in the wake of Matthew's attack. Hannibal had saved his life, and then he'd sat in Will's hospital room with a book, watching him, watching _over_ him. Aside from Beverly, there wasn't anyone in Will's life who'd do that for him.

 

“Okay. I'll give you a call.”

 

Hannibal's pleased smile was still warming something in the pit of his belly when he left _Mischa's_.

 

-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get all my medical information from the internet. /excuse


	5. 5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two for the price of one - posting chapters 5 and 6 at the same time.

**5.**

 

Will stalked through his house, dogs at his heels.

 

The FBI had left even more of a mess this time. Cupboards stood open, furniture had been moved, the contents of shelves and tables rearranged. Black smudges on door handles and window frames showed where they'd dusted for prints. Crime scene tape fluttered from trees and bushes in the backyard and all around the space in front Will used for parking. The kitchen in particular was pure chaos; every single one of Will's plates and most of his silverware needed to be cleaned and put back where they belonged.

 

Beverly shrugged helplessly. “I tried cleaning up some, but I'd hate it if someone rearranged my stuff, so...”

 

Will swallowed down his anger. Beverly had gone above and beyond the duty of friendship, always did. She didn't deserve his foul mood. “I'll never be able to make this up to you.”

 

“You owe me nothing, and you know it.”

 

They backtracked through the mess into Will's study, ironically the one room that the FBI had left almost undisturbed. Will powered up the laptop. He wasn't looking forward to checking his mail accounts, two weeks unattended.

 

Beverly flopped down on the couch. Buster immediately ambled over and sprawled next to her for belly rubs. “So. That Lecter guy.”

 

“What about him?”

 

Beverly smirked. “Come on, Will. You _floated_ out of that restaurant.” She made a complicated gesture that included all ten fingers. Buster whined at her. “And he was _hovering_.”

 

“He found me and Matthew. I guess he feels responsible.”

 

“And that's all.”

 

Previous forays into the minefield of relationships had proven Will was better off alone. He'd been living on his own practically since highschool, and had subsequently developed quirks and habits others rarely found endearing or even bearable. Then there were his dogs, and the single–minded focus he had when it came to his job, and a thousand other things.

 

Will thought about waking up in the hospital, Hannibal's hand around his. Trauma had a way of uniting people. He wasn't sure how much of his interest in Hannibal was just projected gratefulness. “I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

 

“All I'm saying is, don't knock it till you tried it,” Beverly said. “He seems like a nice guy.”

 

Will started his mail program, wincing when he saw the number of unread messages. “I'll think about it.”

 

–

 

In the evening, Crawford called. “I'm not gonna tell you I told you so. How are you?”

 

Rain beat against the window. The dogs were sprawled on blankets and pillows, pink tongues lolling, bellies full. A fire was crackling in the hearth. Will had a glass of good scotch at his elbow and take–out pizza on the table. “Depends. Do I still have a job?”

 

“We're not going to fire you, Will.”

 

“Let me rephrase: do I still have _my_ job?”

 

Crawford hesitated just a second too long. “Of course.”

 

“What aren't you telling me?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Will sighed. “Jack...”

 

“Looks like you got some powerful friends now. Just saying.”

 

Will groaned. That was exactly what he hadn't wanted to hear. “How bad is it?”

 

Over the line came the sound of Crawford scratching through his goatee. “Doctor Bloom ring any bells?”

 

Doctor Bloom's card was still stuck between the ears of the dog statue on the sideboard. “Georgetown professor. Lectures at Quantico and consults with the Behavioural Analysis Unit. We've met.”

 

“She's got Donald wrapped around her finger. He was all set on...”

 

“Firing me?”

 

Crawford hummed. “There was a meeting with the publisher, the lawyers, the whole rigmarole. You gotta look at it from their perspective, Will. It'd be criminally negligent if they'd send you right back out to write about what got you attacked in the first place.”

 

Will knew how things worked in the upper echelons. First and foremost, the _Sun's_ lawyers were concerned with protecting their client's public image and assets. A dead reporter on the payroll – in Baltimore, not in some distant, war–torn third world country where a life was worth nothing – would end in bad press for the press.

 

Then there was the statement Beverly had mentioned: an agreement on silence. The FBI had locked down Matthew's story and the attack on Will, to the point where Will had yet to find any mention of it in any newspaper or the online news _at all_. The _Sun_ couldn't profit from it, sworn to secrecy as they were.

 

Powerful friends, indeed. Doctor Bloom probably thought she was doing him a favour, intervening like that. She'd made sure Will still had a job when he got out of the hospital. The FBI had protected his privacy. He'd already resented the idea of having to be grateful for their intervention; now, he was downright indebted to them.

 

And surely, they'd expect something in return. He could guess what it was.

 

“Would it help if I talked to Donald myself?”

 

Crawford snorted. “With your special Will Graham charm? No. You want some advise? Come in on Monday, pretend nothing happened.”

 

“You mean, lie.”

 

“That's exactly what I mean. Unless you wanna make it known you're getting special treatment.”

 

“How many people know about this _agreement_ with the FBI, anyway? About what really happened?”

 

“Beverly was in my office when the cops showed up. I don't know if she told anyone. Donald knows, the lawyers know. We figured the fewer people are involved, the better for everyone concerned. The official story is that you had an accident.”

 

Beverly would have told Zeller and Price. For all that Will found them bearable only in small doses, he knew Zeller and Price weren't going to raise a fuss. The rest of his colleagues were a different story. Will didn't have the best of relationships with any of them. Most of them thought he was an arrogant ass, a preconception he wasn't always keen on correcting.

 

“What kind of accident?”

 

“You think of something,” Crawford told him gruffly. “I already lied enough. But keep this in mind: if you decide to come clean to everyone, the integrity of this newspaper is at stake. This Brown guy killed five or six people. And we're helping the FBI hushing it up.”

 

The first stirrings of a headache were beginning to needle at Will's temples. Lies had a habit of being beautiful constructs that collapsed under their own weight. “Something always seeps through the cracks. You know that.”

 

“We'll deal with that when we have to. So. See you on Monday.”

 

The line went dead. Will sagged into the couch. Winston trotted over, laying his head on Will's thigh. By the fireplace, Deacon yawned widely, setting off Buster and Pix. The other three were already asleep, sprawled every which way in contentment.

 

Peaceful. Calm.

 

Will's life had been anything but lately. He had a feeling it was only going to get worse.

 

–

 

Monday came with morning frost. Barney, the doorman, greeted Will with a broad smile and a clasp of his bear–paw hand on Will's shoulder. “Hope you're feeling better, Mister Graham.”

 

“Thanks, Barney.”

 

News of Will's 'accident' had made the rounds. People Will had never even said hello to greeted him like he was the long–lost sheep returning to the herd. He fled to the safety of Beverly's desk, where he was immediately fenced in by Zeller and Price. Across the newsroom, Crawford gave him a meaningful look.

 

“Everyone, Sherlock Holmes has returned,” Crawford raised his voice above the others. “Now, let's hear what laid you flat so we can finally stop the rumour mill.”

 

“Fishing accident,” Will said.

 

Next to him, Zeller chortled. “What, they bit really well?”

 

A few laughs, a few chortles. Most were already turning back their desks. Crawford, looking satisfied, waltzed out.

 

Zeller eyed Will curiously. “You want tell us what really happened?”

 

Beverly shrugged. “I only told them about the agreement.”

 

Price sat up straighter. “There's more?”

 

Will summed up the encounter with Matthew like he had for Purnell, sticking to the bare facts. He left out a few aspects he wasn't ready to share with anyone, when he could barely admit them to himself. At the end, both Zeller and Price were staring at him with their eyebrows near their hairlines.

 

Price looked worried. “Shouldn't you be at home, in bed? In the hospital?”

 

“It's not like the guy eviscerated me.” Luckily, Matthew hadn't gotten that far.

 

“It's just a stab wound.” Beverly rolled her eyes. “So macho.”

 

Zeller and Price laughed. Will figured he was in the clear.

 

During his lunch break in the cafeteria, Donald Sutcliffe sat at Will's table. He pulled a leather folder from his briefcase, uncapped his fountain pen, and handed both to Will. “Sign this, please.”

 

Will read the single page. Another agreement, this time concerning him: the _Sun's_ way of making sure _he_ wasn't going to profit from his encounter with Matthew, either. Legally, it was bullshit – but he signed it anyway, figuring it would help everyone in the upper echelon to forget his name again a little bit faster.

 

“Thank you, Mister Graham,” Donald said, got up, and left.

 

Nothing interesting the rest of the day. Will had a lot of catching up to do, but eventually, there was nothing left to read or watch. The slower the hours passed, the more often he caught himself staring at the telephone.

 

“Frigging call already!” Beverly snapped, exasperated, when he started winding the telephone cord around his fingers. “Don't be such a teenage drama queen about it.”

 

Will rode the elevator to the top floor. The padlock on the exit to the roof had been broken years ago, and no one had bothered to replace it. The smokers used the roof when the weather was good. Today, the wind was chilly, moist; Will had the space all to himself. He sat on one of the big air vent pipes, cellphone in hand.

 

Hannibal picked up on the second dial tone. “Hannibal Lecter.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Will.” Hannibal's voice echoed oddly. “One moment, please. I'm in the cellar.” Will listened to Hannibal's footsteps on what sounded like wooden stairs, the clap of a door. Music was playing in the background, something classical, heavy.

 

“I was waiting for your call,” Hannibal said warmly.

 

“I almost didn't.”

 

“I'm glad you did.”

 

“Would you have showed up at my house again if I hadn't?”

 

“That _was_ an apology. But, yes. You were right. I don't give up easily.”

 

Will stared at Baltimore's skyline. Maybe they'd have gotten to this point even if Matthew hadn't happened. Just hearing Hannibal's voice set off a fluttery warmth in his belly. Teenage drama queen, indeed.

 

Hannibal said, “I'd love to cook for you again.”

 

“I'd like that.”

 

“Good.” Hannibal sounded pleased and apologetic. “Though I'm afraid, tonight...”

 

“Not tonight. I'm pretty beat.”

 

“Your wound...?”

 

“No, just – work. _Politics_.”

 

Hannibal chuckled as though he knew exactly what Will was talking about. “When would be good for you?”

 

“Tomorrow? Day after? I've got no plans most evenings.”

 

“Unless a murder happens. I imagine you go haring off at the drop of a pin, then.”

 

Will scratched at his eyebrow. “It's my job.” Regardless of where this was going, he wanted to make sure Hannibal knew what he was getting into. “It happens.”

 

“Admirable dedication. Tomorrow, then?”

 

Will nodded, realized Hannibal couldn't see it, and cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

 

“Wonderful. Eight o'clock?”

 

“Okay.”

 

Long minutes after the call ended, Will still sat on the roof, staring at nothing. He had a _date_. He didn't allow himself to feel anything but cautiously optimistic; he'd had dates before, sometimes even more than one with the same person. Dating wasn't the problem. It was what came after that presented the stumbling step.

 

Beverly looked a question at him when he returned to the newsroom, thoroughly chilled. Will lifted a flat hand, palm down, see–sawed it: _maybe, maybe not_. She huffed, shook her head, and disappeared back behind her computer screen.

 

–

 

The next day, it was even colder. Leaves crunched underfoot during the morning walk. The dogs' breath steamed in the air and the tip of Will's nose was red. He had a headache when he returned home. He showered, changed the bandages. He felt a little sore and winded after two weeks of lying around and doing nothing. The healing scar between his ribs throbbed when he smoothed salve over it; it looked small, inconsequential. Even the longer scar on his hip didn't look like much.

 

Nothing at all like the ragged, gaping hole he'd left in Matthew's throat.

 

If he'd had a knife –

 

Will dressed. He lingered over his choice of sweaters, tempted to wear the one with the frayed collar just to make a point, later, then wondered why he even bothered. Hannibal had seen him with someone else's blood on his face and hadn't been repelled.

 

_Stop trying to sabotage yourself_ , Will told himself firmly.

 

He set out food and water for the dogs, collecting his bag and travel cup. His cellphone dinged while he walked out to his car. He nearly walked _into_ his car when he read the message.

 

The Chesapeake Ripper had struck again.

 

–

 

Will found the place easily enough. The wide open, empty space was hard to miss – so were the FBI vans blocking off the entrance. Will's first thought was to drive past and pretend he was just passing through the area, but something niggled at the back of his mind. He parked at the curb and fished his cellphone out of his bag. He'd come straight here on the assumption that the cavalry was already gone; Boyle wouldn't direct him to a scene crawling with other cops or the FBI.

 

The number the message had come from was not Detective Boyle's. In his haste and sudden excitement, Will hadn't noticed anything but the words, those magic words: Chesapeake Ripper. “Bastards.” He dialled the number on the screen.

 

A ringtone, something cheerful, sounded just outside his car.

 

He looked up. Doctor Bloom stood at the curb, cellphone in hand. Her smile was half triumph, half apology.

 

Will rolled down the window. “Got tired of waiting for my call?”

 

“ _Would_ you have called?”

 

He'd thought about it, in the hospital, after the hospital. Ultimately, he'd kept putting it off. “Maybe.”

 

“In my experience, 'maybe' translates to 'never'.”

 

“Not my choice now, is it?”

 

Doctor Bloom looked down the road. “Nobody's holding you here. You can just drive away.”

 

He considered that option, considered being an ass about it. “What're you hoping to get out of this?”

 

“I hope to catch the Ripper.”

 

“That's all?”

 

Doctor Bloom regarded him intently. “I'm not going to lie. You interest me. Empathy by itself isn't such an outstanding aspect of the mind. We all have it, to some degree. But empathy with killers...”

 

Will ground his teeth. “Empathy isn't the same as sympathy.”

 

“I know that,” Doctor Bloom said quickly. “I'm not suggesting you sympathize with any of them. But you have an aptitude. And an obvious interest.”

 

“You're making it sound like I admire these people.”

 

“You write about the killers, not about the victims or the victim's families. That does say something about you, wouldn't you agree?” Doctor Bloom made an inviting gesture. “Now, shall we?”

 

Among the parked vehicles was a coroner's van. Its back door stood open, showing an empty stretcher. They hadn't yet moved the body. Curiosity won out over irritation. Will had never laid eyes on a Ripper victim before. Who knew what he'd see, what hidden meanings and messages he'd find, in the centre piece of the Ripper's theatre stage?

 

One element was missing from the tableau. “Where's Purnell?”

 

“Deposed in court.”

 

“She's okay with this?”

 

“It's not her call to make.”

 

There was a 'not anymore' in that statement Will didn't quite know what to make of. For someone who according to her own words only guest-lectured at Quantico, Doctor Bloom seemed to have a lot of influence at the FBI.

 

Doctor Bloom lead the way into the parking lot. The cherry tree in full bloom planted in the middle of the wide space stood out like a sore thumb. The concrete around its roots was broken up, thick pieces lying scattered in an arranged–looking radius, as if the tree had grown here naturally.

 

Will stopped at the first spiderweb cracks in the concrete, staring up at the body hung from the tree – the body _fused_ to the tree. “I know this guy. Sheldon Isley.”

 

Doctor Bloom stopped next to him. “Baltimore city councilman, yes. He was reported missing a few days ago. Did you know him personally?”

 

“No. But I remember his picture.” Although the face high up in the blossoms was slack in death, Will recognized in it the smug–looking, opportunistic Sheldon Isley who'd made headlines. “It was five, six years ago. He brokered a woodland development deal despite the EPA's protest.” Will looked around. Flat, grey concrete all the way to the distant road and the line of trees on the other side. “We're probably standing on the result of that deal. Paved paradise.”

 

“Good memory,” Doctor Bloom commented.

 

“What?”

 

“You recognized him from a picture you saw 'five, six years ago'.”

 

“Am I here because you want me to look, or because you want to look at _me_?”

 

Doctor Bloom held his glare. “Bit of both. You applied to the police academy in New Orleans before you chose the pen over the gun. You passed every test with flying colours, except the psychological entrance exams.”

 

Will felt his hackles rise. That was something not even Beverly knew about him. “And?”

 

“I'm just wondering why.”

 

Instabilities detected, possible spectrum diagnosis if he'd just hold still for a few more tests, anti–social tendencies – the academy shrinks had given him a more detailed _why_ than he cared to repeat. There was nothing wrong with him. So he didn't like parties and preferred being left to his own devices, so what? That didn't give anyone the right to go poking around in his mind like it was a self-serve salad bar.

 

Sensing his rising ire, Doctor Bloom changed the subject. “What do you see when you look at this?”

 

Will glanced at the body.

 

Karma. Punishment. Irony. And smugness.

 

The cavity in Isley's middle had been filled with bunches of flowers. Belladonna for the heart, chain of white oleander for the intestines, ragwort for the liver – all poisonous. Will added 'judgement' to the list of what he was seeing. The amount of symbolism in this single tableau was overwhelming.

 

He closed his eyes, stripped away Doctor Bloom, the FBI vans, the stares of the other agents he could feel like needles in his back. He imagined a swinging pendulum rolling the time back until even the cracks in the concrete were gone.

 

He was the Chesapeake Ripper. He had no particular hate for Isley, only a low sweltering contempt for the kind of human being Isley was. He was patient. Five or six years since Isley's woodland development deal. He loved symbolism and ironic puns, and it didn't matter if anyone understood them, because _he_ understood them, and that was enough. He –

 

“What are you doing here, meditating?”

 

Yanked from his trip down the Ripper's mental pathways, Will found himself face to face with a petite redhead. Doctor Bloom, who'd walked away a few steps without Will noticing, came toward them with a look of annoyance and anger on her face.

 

The redhead peered curiously at Will. “Wait, I know you. You're Will Graham, that reporter.”

 

“You're not supposed to be here,” Will managed to get out.

 

The redhead snorted. “Well, _you're_ not supposed to be here, either.”

 

“Freddie!” Doctor Bloom reached them. “I asked everyone to stay with the vans.”

 

Freddie raised both eyebrows at Doctor Bloom. “I'm all for new and innovative profiling techniques, but letting a civilian take over is taking things a bit too far, don't you think?”

 

“He's not taking over, he's taking a look. Mister Graham is here with the section chief's knowledge. You know that.”

 

Will moved away from the women and the budding argument, needing a moment to find his mental footing. He didn't like company when he visited crime scenes. Each had their own magnetic draw, and the Ripper's magnetism had always been strong. Will felt unsettled and not himself, and the abrupt surfacing hadn't done him any favours.

 

Doctor Bloom joined him after a few minutes. “Are you all right?”

 

The headache he'd had since walking the dogs was rearing up for another assault. He searched through his pockets for his Aspirin bottle, then remembered he'd left it in his bag in his car. “I need to get out of here.”

 

Freddie was watching them both with narrowed eyes and a sullen twist to her mouth. “Nice meeting you, Mister Graham,” she said sarcastically.

 

Doctor Bloom followed Will back out of the parking lot. She said nothing until he'd found the Aspirin bottle and washed down the pills with cold, stale coffee. “I'm sorry. The interruption wasn't planned.”

 

“She's right, though. I _am_ a civilian. I'm not even a witness.”

 

“When we catch the Ripper, we have enough to nail him for the rest of his life, with or without witnesses.”

 

Will snorted softly. _When_. “I'd be careful with that optimism.”

 

“You don't believe we'll catch him?”

 

“Not soon, no.”

 

“What makes you so sure?”

 

“Sheldon Isley was literally grafted to that tree. And, a _tree_. A live tree, with roots. Getting that here and setting it up had to have taken hours. The Ripper probably even grew it himself, and they don't grow overnight. That's some serious planning. This was years in the making.”

 

“So he's meticulous, goal-oriented...”

 

“Patient,” Will picked up. “He's patient. He has a grip on his urges. Control. That gives him an edge over most other sadistic killers. Even if the Ripper goes on a spree, he's _never_ out of control.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Isley brokers a deal that ends in a nesting habitat for endangered songbirds being turned into a parking lot. The Ripper turns Isley into a tree and plants him in that parking lot. He loves his little inside jokes, his puns, his... _finesse_.”

 

“That doesn't mean he won't make a mistake,” Doctor Bloom said, sceptically. “Or that he'll never be caught.”

 

“I don't know about never,” Will said, “but I don't believe you'll catch him soon. When you think you're close to catching him, that's because he wants you to think that. These,” he indicated the parking lot, “are his theatre stages, and he's the one writing the scripts.”

 

There was a tightness around Doctor Bloom's mouth, a distant look in her eyes.

 

Will sat sideways in the driver's seat of his car. “What were you really hoping to get out of this? Everything I just told you is in the files Purnell confiscated from me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So this was what, a test?”

 

“A _taste._ I think you could be an asset to our work. In a more official capacity than having to sneak on to crime scenes.”

 

She had to be kidding. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but this only works in movies and TV series. You can't just take random people from the street and employ them in the FBI.”

 

“We've been trying to catch the Ripper for a very long time. He's been operating in the Baltimore area for over a decade now, and you're right...we're no closer to catching him than we were after the first definite Ripper case.”

 

“And you think I can help you catch him.”

 

“I think you have a deeper understanding of killers than any profiler I've ever worked with. Legally, there's nothing that says you _can't_ work with us. It'd be the same as consulting a specialist who's not employed by the FBI. We do it all the time.” She smiled apologetically. “You couldn't write about any of this, of course, at least not until we caught the Ripper and he's safely behind bars.”

 

She was offering him a job. He'd have more access than he'd ever thought possible, not just to crime scenes, but also to their files, possibly even their labs. It was any reporter's wet dream to be offered that kind of opportunity, that kind of peek behind the curtains.

 

It sounded _too_ good to be true.

 

“Think about it,” Doctor Bloom offered. “That's all I'm asking.”

 

“I'll call.” He started the car, and noticed her amused look. “Really, I'll call.”

 

Doctor Bloom smirked. “Do. Because I don't think the cellphone trick will work twice.”

 

-

 

 


	6. 6.

**6.**

 

Beverly was pacing up and down in the _Sun's_ lobby when Will came through the doors. “Oh my god. Finally!”

 

Will blinked at her, alarmed. “What's wrong? Did something happen?”

 

“What's wrong? Do you know what time it is?”

 

The big clock in the foyer showed nearly ten o'clock in the morning, two hours past the time Will usually made it to the newsroom. He fumbled for an excuse. He didn't want to tell her about Doctor Bloom's offer yet, not until he'd had some time to think about it, to figure out if it was something he really wanted. “I got stuck in traffic.”

 

“And you couldn't have called? I texted you six times!”

 

Beverly's raised voice was turning heads. Will was a little taken aback. “I'm just late, Bev. It happens.”

 

She grimaced. “Yeah, and what happened the last time everyone thought you were late?”

 

_Fuck_.

 

Beverly deflated. “Just...don't do that to me.”

 

She was in a crabby mood for hours, shooting irritated glances at him whenever their paths crossed. Around noon, Will was becoming irritated himself. This morning's jaunt through the Ripper's convoluted mindset had left him raw and splayed wide open. Even the whispered conversations on the other side of the newsroom seemed too loud, too intrusive. More Aspirin didn't help.

 

Beverly stopped by his desk some time after lunch. “Peace?”

 

Will massaged his temples. “I wasn't aware we were fighting.”

 

“We're not. Not yet.” Beverly took a seat. “I'll probably be clingy and overprotective for a while. Just tell me when it's too much and I'll pretend I give a damn.”

 

“I'm sorry I gave you a scare.” He waited a beat. “It's going to keep happening. You know that.”

 

“Yeah. I know. Stuff happens.” She sucked on her lip. “Okay, I overreacted.”

 

“And I'm an ass for worrying you.”

 

“And for ignoring your phone.”

 

“And for ignoring my phone. All around ass.”

 

They shared a grin, their not-fight over and done with. On the other side of the newsroom, Zeller kicked the copy machine and muttered something about it being a piece of shit. Will winced at the noise.

 

Beverly eyed his brow. “You've been popping Aspirin all morning.”

 

“Just a headache.”

 

“Need anything?”

 

“I'll be fine.”

 

“Want me to leave you alone?”

 

“Actually, I could use some help. How much do you know about wines?”

 

“Wine? Not a lot. Why – _oooh_. Tonight's the big night? D-a-t-e?”

 

“Christ, Bev.” Will buried his face in his hands. “I'm meeting him for dinner, that's all.”

 

Beverly grinned unabashedly. “That's as good as second base, for you.”

 

Will made a shooing motion. “I changed my mind. Go away.”

 

She cackled all the way back to her desk. A minute later, a message on the internal memo system popped up on his computer screen, with a link to a local wine shop.

 

-

 

Chandler Square was one of the most prestigious Baltimore areas. The houses stood far apart, tidy in their picket-fenced plots. Will parked at the end of the street and walked to Hannibal's house. Not a single dog bark; curtains twitched here and there; the lawn in the front yards looked like they were cutting it with rulers and nail clippers. The flowers in their precisely-arranged beds probably bloomed on command.

 

The front yard of 5 Chandler Square was rather more overgrown, with big, dark-leafed bushes along the fence. No flowers. The house was a miniature castle, stark and imposing. It fit. _Count_ Hannibal Lecter. Will rang the bell, feeling like he was about to set foot on the yellow brick road.

 

Hannibal opened the door with a smile on his lips. “Good evening, Will. Please, come in.”

 

Will stepped over the threshold, catching glimpses of Hannibal's life through first impressions: coat rack, sideboard with a porcelain dish on it for keys, mirror in a gilded frame on the wall, warm colours. He held out his gift. “I didn't know what else to bring.”

 

Hannibal took the offered bottle of wine. “You are my guest, Will. You didn't have to bring anything, just yourself.” He glanced at the label, making an appreciative noise. “Excellent choice. It will go well with dinner.” Setting the bottle on the sideboard, he stepped closer. “Allow me.”

 

No one had ever helped Will in or out of a jacket before. _Old school_.

 

Hannibal picked up the bottle. “This way, please.”

 

And they were past the hand-shaking stage.

 

The interior of Hannibal's house, the parts Will saw as they proceeded from the entrance to the foyer and then down a corridor toward the back, was opulent. Everything looked expensive and was carefully arranged. A set of authentic-looking samurai armour guarded an open doorway. Will tucked his elbows close, afraid he'd knock over something invaluable, a little peeved he was reacting that way. Hannibal wasn't pointing out the most expensive pieces of what had to be an entire art collection, or boasting that many of the books lying around were indeed the first editions they looked like, but all that _stuff_ was just too much.

 

Houses were meant to be lived in. This was like walking through a museum.

 

The kitchen was, thankfully, more down to earth. “The heart of my house,” Hannibal announced proudly.

 

Will stopped at the largest kitchen island he'd ever laid eyes on. “Two stoves?”

 

“Oh, I need them. Sometimes I wish I had three.” Hannibal tied an apron around his waist. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like a drink?”

 

“Not now, thanks.” Will circled the kitchen, peering out of the window over the sink. The backyard was tiny, fenced in by high stone walls: a tree, a small pond, a garden bench. A far cry from the wide open spaces of Will's farmstead. He turned away and watched Hannibal unwrap a cut of meat. “Need help?”

 

“Not used to letting others do all the work, are you?”

 

“Not really, no.”

 

“We have that in common.”

 

Will was about to point out that Hannibal lived in luxury, but then he recalled a scrap of information from an online article he'd read weeks ago. Hannibal was the offspring of Lithuanian dissidents. He must have grown up an orphan, in Russia, in the 1970s, in a time and under a regime that cared little for the fate of the children of its enemies.

 

Hannibal gave Will a shrewd look. “I'm rich now. I also, vividly, remember a time when I had to fight for scraps of food.”

 

It was hard to reconcile the mental image of a starved, hollow-eyed waif with the man standing in front of Will now. It also brought to mind how upset Will had been over the barkeeper's, Bedelia's, assumptions about _him_.

 

“I shouldn't have assumed. Sorry.”

 

“Don't apologize, please. This is what getting to know each other is about, isn't it?” Hannibal's smile was small, hopeful. “And I do hope you want to get to know me.”

 

_Definitely_ past the hand-shaking stage. Will settled for a nod.

 

Hannibal beckoned him closer. “Now, have you ever peeled a head of cabbage?”

 

Will hadn't. He rolled up his sleeves. “Show me.”

 

Peeling cabbage involved holding an entire head of it in a pot of boiling water and carefully pulling off the outer leaves whole, as they softened. Hannibal put the meat through a manual grinder, occasionally looking over to check on Will's progress. He soaked slices of hard bread in water and picked them apart with his fingers. The ground meat and the bread crumbs went into a large bowl together with the yolk of an egg, spices, and two generous tablespoons of sweet-smelling mustard.

 

Will burned his fingers on a hot leaf. He shook his hand. “What are we making?”

 

“Beef roulades.” Hannibal kneaded the mixture. “My mother's recipe.”

 

Will wanted to get something out of the way. “I googled you. After you came to my house. Just so you know.”

 

“I googled you to find your house. I'd say that makes us even.”

 

“Your entire family...”

 

“Dead, yes. Oh, some distant relatives somewhere in Europe, I'm sure, but I'm the last of the Lecter family. What about you?”

 

“My father lives in New Orleans.” Occasionally, he called. They had a civil relationship. Their conversations were short and awkward; Walter Graham had never really connected with his son, too busy repairing boat motors, too eager to sink what little money they had over into cheap bottles of whiskey.

 

Hannibal formed little loafs out of the mixture in the bowl. “And your mother?”

 

“Never knew her.”

 

“Siblings?”

 

“None. You?” Will winced. “Sorry. That was tactless.”

 

“I had a sister. Her name was -”

 

Something clicked in Will's mind. “Mischa?”

 

Hannibal looked taken aback, then impressed. “I forgot I'm talking to the incarnation of Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Oh god, don't call me that.” There were no more leaves to peel from the cabbage. Will held up the stripped trunk of the head, speared on a long grill fork. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

 

“Leave it on the cutting board there to cool. Now let the leaves cook until they're a bit softer still, folding easily over the fork. Two minutes, then you can take them out.”

 

Slowly, Will stirred the leaves in the pot. His mind latched onto the mental image of Hannibal as an orphan. It was morbid, but Will wanted to know if he'd witnessed the deaths of his family members. He must have been old enough to know what was going on: he recalled his mother's recipe and the name of his sister.

 

“Will?” Suddenly, Hannibal stood right next to him. “They're done.”

 

Will had completely zoned out, fixated on the imaginative child Hannibal in his mind, fighting for scraps of food, fighting to survive. “Damn. Sorry.” He poked at the soggy cabbage. “Did I ruin dinner?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Will fished out the cabbage, vaguely embarrassed by his slip. When he was done, Hannibal reached over and turned off the burner under the pot, his arm brushing against Will's side. He cupped Will's elbow, looking down at the bandage peeking out from under Will's sleeve, and made a soft noise of regret. “I didn't even see this wound until the ambulance arrived. There was so much blood.”

 

Will swallowed dryly. Hannibal had large hands, strong hands. He imagined them elsewhere on his body, everywhere. “I told you, don't beat yourself up over it.”

 

“I still think I should have noticed something.”

 

“Don't go there.”

 

“I knelt in your blood, Will. It's impossible not to 'go there'.”

 

_Most of that wasn't mine._ “I think Matthew bled more than I did.”

 

Hannibal's thumb settled into the soft crook of Will's elbow, stroking small circles. “I know.”

 

Will shifted uneasily. They'd gotten to this far sooner than he was ready for. “That doesn't bother you?”

 

“Why would it?”

 

“I killed someone.”

 

“Who wanted to kill you. Who nearly _did_ kill you.” Hannibal brought his other hand up between them, brushing his knuckles over Will's ribs. “I'm rather glad he didn't succeed. If you are looking for judgement, you won't find it here.”

 

Something hard, tight, and cold unravelled in Will's chest. Even if it had been self-defence, he had _killed_ someone. Polite society placed such a taboo on taking a life. Hannibal's easy acceptance suddenly meant a great deal.

 

Hannibal watched him for a moment. He slipped his hand down to Will's hip, ghosting his palm over the spot where another bandage was hidden under shirt and jeans, and hooked a finger into Will's belt loop. “I had a plan for us. You ruined it. I'm an old-fashioned man. I was taught certain rules.”

 

“Dinners, slow dances...” It was a ridiculous image, but it was something Will could see Hannibal doing; he'd be perfectly serious about it, too. Old school. “Poetry?”

 

“I drew the line there. I don't think you'd enjoy that.”

 

Will laughed, he couldn't help it. “Probably not.” He could see himself enjoy the dancing, though. Just the two of them, no spectators, moving to a tune only they could hear. “So, plan ruined. And now?”

 

“Now I'm going to be terribly forward,” Hannibal said, and reeled him in.

 

They fit well. Hannibal was a few inches taller, compact, stronger than his elegant, lean appearance in suits suggested. His hands landed low on the small of Will's back, holding him close. They touched faces, cheeks and noses rubbing, a playful, tactile approach. Hannibal nipped at the lobe of Will's ear, with just a hint of tongue. The shock of it travelled like an electric current down Will's spine, warming the pit of his belly. He turned his head until his mouth found Hannibal's. They kissed, slow and sweet, tender. Will wanted it to never end.

 

Hannibal eased them apart far too soon, resting his brow against Will's. His hands pulled Will closer still, possessive and warm. “I'll do horrible things to you if we don't stop.”

 

Will had to swallow down a groan. His imagination was running far and away with those 'horrible things'. He clutched at Hannibal's hips. “That's not really an incentive to stop.”

 

Hannibal laughed softly, stealing another kiss, a quick, teasing nip at Will's upper lip. “My apologies. But if we don't, I'm afraid I'll be seeing you off without dinner.”

 

Will didn't give a damn about dinner; Hannibal, on the other hand, probably did, because it was the proper thing to do for a first date. There were other, more mundane things to consider as well. Much as the idea appealed, Will couldn't stay too long. The dogs couldn't be left to their own devices all night, and it was too late to call Mrs. Dutch and ask her to look after them. He wasn't sure he could stop if they progressed further; he wasn't sure he could bring himself to leave if they did.

 

Reluctantly, he let go, glancing down at the distinct bulge under his belt with amused chagrin. His only consolation was that Hannibal appeared to be similarly afflicted. His apron had a nice, little tent at the front.

 

Their eyes met. They both chuckled. The humour diffused his budding chagrin, and Will began to feel hopeful that this thing with Hannibal would last. It would be a nice change from previous experiences.

 

-

 

The dining room had cobalt-blue walls and _Leda and the Swan_ above the mantle of the fireplace. The dark, polished wood of the table gleamed under dimmed light that didn't reach the corners. To one side, tiny hanging gardens covered an entire wall; Will thought at first the various herbs in them were made from plastic, until he stepped closer and smelled the thyme, the oregano, the basil.

 

The table decoration was downright morbid, bones and fruit, fitting in with the glimpses of Hannibal's house Will had gotten so far, and easily meshing with his impression of the man himself. Stag antlers at _Mischa's_. Tables lit like little boats at sea. Dark grey kitchen furniture. Plays of light and shadow. The katana in front of the samurai armour. The dark, heavy furniture.

 

Will looked again, looked harder, shoved aside childhood prejudice and adult preconceptions. Hannibal had a taste for the obscure he found reassuring; Will's mind was filled with the obscure, and perhaps Doctor Bloom had been right: he did have an aptitude for it. Maybe with Hannibal, he wouldn't have to hide it all the time. Maybe Hannibal would understand.

 

Hannibal pulled out a chair for him, to the right of the head of the table. “You mentioned politics, yesterday on the phone. I trust everything is all right?”

 

“Depends on how you look at it.” Will had been meaning to ask, and did now. “I'm assuming the FBI talked to you, too?”

 

“At length.”

 

“They make you sign anything?”

 

“I told them there was no need for contracts that wouldn't hold up in any court. The agent I spoke to was very understanding. A Doctor Bloom. I promised her I had no intentions of appearing on any talk shows, and I don't.”

 

Will was grateful  for that . Hannibal could have just as easily attempted to make a profit, or to turn everything into free advertisement for _Mischa's_ . Humans being what they were, Will could imagine quite a few people would find it thrilling, an 'experience', to sit and eat where  a man had torn out another man's throat with his teeth. 

 

Hannibal  sat and shook out a napkin, spreading it over his lap . “The FBI must have been more successful with your employers than they were with me.”

 

“You could say that.”

 

“It bothers you.”

 

“I know what would happen if the story got out, if it got out that I'm involved. _How_ I'm involved.”

 

“You wouldn't have a quiet minute. Possibly for months.”

 

“Exactly. What bothers me is the way they did it. And why they did it.”

 

Hannibal considered for a moment. “Doctor Bloom seemed very protective of you.”

 

Protective wasn't the term Will would describe the good doctor's behaviour toward him.

 

“Perhaps a little _too_ protective,” Hannibal added. “I must admit, I wondered at the reasoning. I thought at first that they were going to offer you witness protection, but Matthew is dead and poses no threat. You don't need protection.”

 

Certainly not from Matthew Brown. Will had dealt with that threat all by himself. Hannibal had been there, not to witness the act, but to see the result of it – and still he'd pulled Will closer, earlier in the kitchen, and kissed him: as if it didn't matter Will had literally killed someone with his teeth.

 

Hannibal cocked his head. “I'm assuming they want something from you.”

 

Will cut off a piece of meatloaf, piled cabbage on top. Chewed mechanically, buying time. He hadn't even told Beverly yet, who was usually the first to be in the know about changes in Will's life. He wanted to tell Hannibal, who could well be one of those changes.

 

It was crazy, and maybe right now Will was already thinking too far ahead, but if there was one person Will  felt he  could talk to freely about what had happened, about what  could happen as a result of it, it was Hannibal. 

 

He made up his mind.  “The FBI offered me to work with them.”

 

“I see. Protection of your privacy in regards to Matthew in exchange for your services?”

 

“Yes. And that bothers me.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I didn't ask them to do that. Because it feels like they're trying to, I don't know, buy me?”

 

“And are disguising it as an act of kindness.”

 

Will nodded. “Yeah.” That was exactly it. Part of it.

 

Hannibal ate a mouthful. Let the silence do the talking for him.

 

“And it might just work,” Will admitted, with a huff.

 

Hannibal laid his fork down and reached across the table, folding his hand over Will's. “I don't wish to pressure you. If you'd rather not talk...”

 

“No, it's, it's fine.” Will gave a little laugh. “It's just weird. Beverly aside, I'm not used to talking to people. I'm used to talking _at_ them.”

 

“Through your articles. Your column.”

 

“Yeah.” He turned his hand over, tangling their fingers.

 

“That's another thing we have in common,” Hannibal said quietly.

 

“I saw the pictures, when I looked you up. Party pictures.”

 

“Taken at events I attend out of a sense of obligation, rather than desire”

 

“No one's obligated to attend anything.”

 

Hannibal rubbed a finger between Will's knuckles, smiling ruefully. “While I'm not entirely without assets, _Mischa's_ is my main source of income, and I cater to a very specific clientèle. They can be rather unforgiving, if one starts to express disdain for their company by shunning it.”

 

Will remembered the exorbitant prices at _Mischa's_. Only rich people could afford to eat there on a regular basis; the regulars Matthew had mentioned would make up the bulk of customers.

 

Still, “You invited me to a dinner party when you came to my house.”

 

“I also said it would be a small dinner party.”

 

Will lifted an eyebrow.

 

“Very small.”

 

The penny dropped. Will barked out a laugh. “Two isn't a party.”

 

“That,” Hannibal said, squeezing Will's hand, “depends entirely on who's attending.”

 

-

 


	7. 7.

**7.**

 

Wednesday morning before he set out for Baltimore, Will plucked Doctor Bloom's card from the sideboard and dialled the number on it. He was calling outside her office hours on purpose, and told her answering machine: “It's Will Graham. I'm in.”

 

He hung up after that, twiddling with his phone, tempted to leave another message saying it had only been a joke, that he'd changed his mind.

 

At work, Beverly rolled her chair across the newsroom, colliding noisily with the side of Will's desk. “Spill.”

 

“We had dinner.”

 

“And?”

 

“And that was it?”

 

Beverly mimicked strangling him.

 

“All right, all right – I'm spending the weekend with him.”

 

Beverly grinned. “Atta, boy.”

 

She rolled back to her desk. Will tried to focus on the information on his screen, but his thoughts kept drifting.

 

Hannibal had kissed him again when Will was about to leave, boxing him in against the door. He hadn't been shy about tilting Will's head just the way he wanted it, broad palm resting warmly on the back of Will's neck, their hips slotted together. The drive home had been a test of Will's ability to _not_ pull over and bring himself off right there at the side of the road.

 

He was looking forward to the weekend so much, it was ridiculous.

 

When he returned from his lunch break, a package sat on his desk. Crawford sat next to it.

 

“The courier came in while you were on break. FBI courier. I signed in your name. Hope that's all right.”

 

“I can explain.”

 

“You better.”

 

They went to Crawford's office. Will paced by the windows. “I'm not jumping ship, Jack.”

 

“Just changing captains, right?”

 

Will stopped pacing. “No. But they're offering me a look behind the curtain. How do I say no to that?” Crawford heaved a long sigh. “There's a chance I could help them catch the Ripper. There's a chance I could help them save some lives. How do I say no to _that_?”

 

Crawford tapped a finger on the edge of his desk. “You ever consider this is what they were after all along?”

 

Will snorted. “Oh, only every other minute.”

 

“And you're giving in to it.” Crawford shrugged. “Just like that.”

 

It wasn't 'just like that'. Will couldn't think of any decision he'd ever made before that gave him as much trouble as the one of picking up Doctor Bloom's card and giving her a call. He felt like a hypocrite. He'd been wailing about the FBI interference, but now that they'd rolled out the red carpet and dangled the bait in front of him, he was eager to swallow the hook.

 

A taste, Doctor Bloom had called it. Will wanted more.

 

Crawford heaved another sigh. “If this gets out, I can't say for sure Donald won't fire you just out of spite.”

 

Will stared at the skyline. “Are you going to tell him?”

 

“No. But if it starts to affect your work here, I will. Are we clear on that?”

 

Will nodded.

 

Crawford pointed at the door. “Get back to work. And Will...be _very_ careful who you talk to, about this.”

 

Back in the newsroom, Will tore the plain wrapping paper off the package. Zeller wandered over. “More crazy gifts from crazy people?”

 

The thin folders in the flat carton were plain, no FBI stamps on the front. There were a lot of them, at least thirty. “Nah, just some stuff from the library. Research into symbolism.”

 

“Ugh, you're such a bore.” Zeller wandered off again.

 

Will replaced the lid of the package, rested his fingertips on top. He wanted to spread the folders out around him and immerse himself, but he couldn't do that here – didn't want to do it here, where he didn't have the privacy to close his eyes and _sink_.

 

He locked the package in his desk and went up to the roof. The wind was downright icy. He stayed in the open doorway, dialling Doctor Bloom's number while furtively glancing down the stairwell in the hopes no one was on their way up here for a smoke break.

 

Doctor Bloom picked up on the first ring. “Remind me to mark the day in my calendar. Two calls.”

 

“Got your package. They're all Ripper cases?”

 

“The ones we know of, yes.”

 

“There are what, thirty?”

 

“Thirty–seven. I also sent you the profile we've been working on.”

 

Anticipation trickled down Will's spine. He'd known of twenty confirmed Ripper kills. “That's a lot of bodies.”

 

“There might be more. He might have been killing well before he started in Baltimore. Perhaps now you understand why I'm so eager to have you work with us.”

 

The looming weight of expectation crushed some of Will's excitement. “I'm not some sort of psychic. I'm not going to magically solve this case for you.”

 

“I understand.”

 

Will hoped she did.

 

Doctor Bloom was silent for a moment. “That's important to you. That others understand your limitations.”

 

“I just don't want to set anyone up for disappointment.”

 

“Have you ever disappointed anyone?”

 

The question was innocent, by–the–by. Will stepped out onto the roof, letting the door fall shut. “Let's make something clear. I agreed to help. That wasn't an invitation for you to psycho–analyse me. You won't like me when I'm psycho–analysed.”

 

This time, the silence on the other end of the line lasted longer. Will imagined Doctor Bloom in her office, calmly dissecting the obvious resistance, searching for another approach. “Observing is what we do, Will,” she finally said. “Neither of us can just turn it off, I think.”

 

Will stared up into the light grey sky. In his mind, he was back in a cheerless little office in New Orleans, where every word he said was evaluated for hidden meanings, turned around in his mouth, used to judge him, used as bait. “I'm not your patient, Doctor Bloom.”

 

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Let me –”

 

“I'll let you know if I find anything.” He ended the call before she could get another word in. Fucking shrinks.

 

Back in the newsroom, he bundled up in his jacket, trying to warm up. Beverly came over, critically assessing him. “You know, if you keep sneaking up to the roof to call your boyfriend –”

 

Will glared, but it was too late.

 

Price's head popped up from behind his computer screen like the mole in whack–a–mole. “Boyfriend?”

 

Beverly winced. “Oops.”

 

–

 

Will took the Chesapeake Ripper files home. He read for eight hours.

 

He woke up on the porch.

 

He thought he was dreaming. He didn't remember getting up and walking out of the house – sure as hell not in the worn T–shirt and boxers he wore to sleep, sticking to his chest and groin with sweat. The back door stood half–open. The dogs were lined up around him, their tails wagging nervously. A flock of small birds was circling in a sky just shading over from night to early morning.

 

With the sight of his breath fogging in the air, other sensations crashed in: the prickle of cold sweat drying on cold skin, the rough texture of the wood under his bare soles. His feet were sore and dirty, grass and bits of brown leaves between his toes as if he'd walked miles and miles through the woods.

 

If he had, he didn't know where he'd gone.

 

Confused, Will went back into the house. The study looked like he'd left it, like he barely remembered leaving it before collapsing into bed. The clock on the night stand read half past five. He touched a palm to the mattress, finding the sheet damp and cool.

 

–

 

Fog rolled in from the bay during the morning, thick like cotton candy. Will spent an hour loitering about the harbour, where the Baltimore PD were wrapping up a scene; he had already lost interest. It was a mugging gone wrong, simple as that. Bad for the old lady who had been found bobbing face down in the water; good for Will, who was operating on far too little sleep and trying to deal with the fact that for the first time in his life, he'd woken up in another place than where he'd gone to bed, with no recollection how he'd gone from Point A to Point B.

 

He texted Beverly a short message that he was going to be late again, bought a cup of coffee, and wandered about, trying to sort his thoughts into something that approached sense. Nightmares were old friends, but sleepwalking, that was new.

 

After last night's reading material, though, perhaps not such a surprise.

 

The Chesapeake Ripper clung to the edges of Will's mind, a dark, feathery mass, faceless and nameless. There was so much Will hadn't known. He'd lost himself in the clinical autopsy reports and the vivid crime scene photos, each case file a revelation, a new layer added to the skeletal construct of the Ripper's personality Will had built over the years. He had only just begun to process the new information, and there was a lot of it: nearly ten years' worth of carnage wrapped in irony and symbolism.

 

Overload. No wonder Will's brain had retaliated.

 

Yes. That was it. No cause for concern.

 

He went to work.

 

“You look like crap,” Crawford told him when their paths crossed.

 

“You look like crap,” Zeller told him, too, an hour later. With a smarmy grin, he added, “Or like someone's been keeping you up all night.”

 

Will fixed the other man with a flat stare. “The Ripper sure did.”

 

Zeller's grin faded. “There's been a new murder?”

 

“Nope. Just thinking about him.”

 

“Think about something else,” Price said. “You do look like crap.”

 

Will looked around. He wasn't in the mood to deal with those two. “Where's Bev?”

 

Zeller shrugged, already turning away. “Sports festival in Irvington. You're gonna have to make do with us for hand–holding.”

 

Will envisioned Zeller with his teeth punched out the back of his head, imagined the give of flesh and bone against his knuckles. It took work to shake the vision off, longer for the surge of aggression to dwindle into tired annoyance and underlying discomfort; did they really think he _needed_ hand–holding?

 

The thought sat heavily in Will's gut, hot on the back of his neck.

 

He attempted to distract himself with work. An hour to write up this morning's harbour incident, with a brief analysis of Baltimore's current stance on street crime and its socio–economic origins: boring. Tame, compared to what was kicking around inside his head. What Will really wanted to write about was the Ripper.

 

Shortly after noon, he was at the end of his patience. “Going to check something,” he announced, grabbing his jacket.

 

Zeller leaned around his screen. “If Jack asks –”

 

“ _If_ he asks, you can tell him I'm out doing my job, like every other damn reporter here.”

 

Zeller held up both hands, eyes wide. “Whoa there, hotshot. Calm down.”

 

Will stalked out of the newsroom, feeling the weight of too many pairs of eyes on his back. His irritation lasted until he sat in his car. By the time he pulled into the Quantico visitor's parking lot, it had faded to faint embarrassment over his outburst. Zeller and he had been laying into each other for years, competing in a not–friends–but–not–enemies–either game of one–upmanship. Will should have stayed home; he felt overly sensitive, nerves close to the surface and twinging at the littlest thing.

 

He waited in the visitor's area until the staccato of heels announced Kade Purnell. She flicked a cool glance over his bedraggled appearance. “Mister Graham. What a surprise. I'm sure you'd rather talk to Doctor Bloom, so –”

 

“No, I want to talk to you.”

 

Purnell's mouth shut with a click of teeth. She raised both eyebrows. “Another surprise. Follow me.”

 

Quantico was vast, a maze of interconnected hallways, open labs and offices. Will's first peek behind the curtain ended in a moderately sized office at the end of a long row of doors. Purnell's desk was a mess of books, loose papers and thick folders. She didn't keep potted plants or other knick–knacks around, not even pictures. A cardigan and a thick wool blanket lay tangled on the worn upholstery of a couch across from the desk – a set–up that vaguely reminded Will of his study at home.

 

“You sleep here often?” He gestured at the couch.

 

“It comes with the job,” Purnell said neutrally, shutting the door. “Coffee?”

 

“Sure, thanks.”

 

She headed for a tiny coffee machine in the corner. The coffee smelled and tasted like the stuff Crawford brewed: industrial strength, bitter, a swift and brutal kick to taste buds and heart rate. Purnell sat behind her desk, eyeing him over the rim of her cup. “I hear Doctor Bloom has taken you under her wing.”

 

Will shrugged. “She tried.”

 

“Unsuccessfully, I assume.”

 

“I'm not interested in being anyone's study subject.”

 

“Is that resentment I hear?”

 

Will was sure Doctor Bloom meant well. He didn't even begrudge her the professional curiosity. Future meetings would show if she respected the boundaries Will had set this morning. For now, he preferred Purnell over Doctor Bloom, simply because, by his estimate, Purnell didn't give a damn about him when he wasn't being a thorn in her side. Purnell wasn't going to attempt to take him under her wing, or hold his hand, or ask him to lay his soul bare. He shrugged. “You can call it what you want.”

 

She mirrored his shrug. “I'm calling this entire joint venture a mistake. I'd rather you weren't involved in this at all.” She spread her hands. “But, since you are here...talk. I'm listening.”

 

Will focused on a point just beyond her shoulder and gathered his thoughts. “The Ripper kills in sounders of three. Three victims over a short period, a week, two weeks, then nothing for months. I'm calling them sounders because that's what they are to him: pigs.”

 

Purnell set her cup down. “Go on.”

 

“He puts them on display, but the picture he's painting – the message he's sending – isn't aimed at law enforcement or the FBI in particular. It's equal parts self–satisfaction, arrogance and, ah, community service.”

 

“Community service?”

 

“He is punishing people for their crimes. He's making his world a better place, one corpse at a time.”

 

Purnell's expression remained carefully blank. “None of his victims had a criminal record. The worst we have on them are a couple of unpaid parking tickets, minor garden fence disputes.”

 

“ _His_ world, not _the_ world.” Will gestured, nearly fumbling his cup. He parked it on the edge of the desk. “All these people offended him. Offended his sensibilities.”

 

“A sensible sadist? The Ripper is a sociopath.”

 

“Only because you guys labelled him one.”

 

Purnell rolled her eyes. “Everything he does screams 'sociopath'. If he isn't one, then what is he?”

 

“I don't think there's a word for what he is.” He drifted off for a moment, mentally revisiting the files, the new information, the puzzle pieces he'd found between the lines. “If you go back through the victims' lives, there will be something they did that put them in his line of fire, and it will be something so small it didn't ping on anyone's radar. That's what's making him so hard to catch. It's nothing personal, and yet it's personal.”

 

Purnell stared at him as though he'd just told her the earth was flat. “The mutilations. The missing organs. Because they _offended_ him?”

 

“It's their reward for undignified behaviour. The mutilations are disgracing them. It's a public shaming.”

 

“Why wasn't what you just told me in any of your articles?”

 

“Because I didn't see it before. I didn't have, well.”

 

“A body to look at,” Purnell finished for him.

 

The FBI's assessment of the Ripper's personality largely mirrored the one Will had gathered over the course of his articles. Sadist, intelligent, medical knowledge, well–educated. But it was looking at Sheldon Isley's body hung in the cherry tree that pushed Will down another path and added a few previously missing key elements.

 

Karma. Punishment. Judgement.

 

_I did this because you deserved it._

 

Will nodded. “Yeah.”

 

“Do you have any evidence to support your theory?”

 

“It's in the files. In the bodies. It's all there. You just have to look.”

 

“People with doctorates in criminology and psychology looked and didn't see it.”

 

Will scoffed. “You can have a doctorate in something and still be crap at it.”

 

“If I take this to the team without any evidence, I could be sending us down a path that leads _away_ from the Ripper.”

 

“ _If_ I'm wrong, yes. It's your decision. I'm only telling you what I see.” He checked his watch. “I've got to be on my way. I gave you the information I have. Do with it what you want.”

 

Purnell walked him back to the entrance area of Quantico. He was at his car, key in the lock, when he caught a flash of colour out of his peripheral vision. The red–haired agent, Freddie, leaned against a black Jeep parked two spots away, arms crossed over her chest. She came over. “Classic behaviour.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Freddie smirked. “The perpetrator insinuating himself into the investigation. It's classic behaviour. The killer wants to experience the aftermath of his crime. That's why the police and the FBI always take a long, good look at people who eagerly offer their help.”

 

Will flung his backpack into the passenger seat. “I didn't offer my help. You guys _asked_ me to help.”

 

“I sure didn't.” Freddie's smile turned sharp around the edges. “Do you know what professions psychopaths gravitate to? There's a list. CEOs, lawyers, the clergy, surgeons...”

 

Knowing what she was getting at, Will snorted. “Number six on that list is journalists. Do you know what number seven is? Law enforcement.”

 

She took the barb with a laugh. “So we're all just a bunch of psychopaths helping each other out. I'll keep that in mind.”

 

One of the main reasons Will hadn't wanted to work with the FBI – aside from the obvious, their interference – was that he could easily put himself in the shoes of the agents suddenly saddled with an outsider and worse, a reporter. If Crawford insisted on bringing in a cop to 'help' Will write his articles and his column, he'd be miffed, too. Freddie's attempt at needling him didn't come as a surprise – the veiled accusation that he was the Ripper, however, did. He'd thought that idiotic idea had meanwhile run its course.

 

“I'm not the Ripper,” he told her.

 

“I never said you are.” Freddie turned to walk away. “Be seeing you around, Mister Graham.”

 

–

 

 


	8. 8.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going to try and NOT post two chapters at once the next time. Also, have some sex.

**8.**

 

Will packed a bag. The dogs were watching him, tails drooping. Occasionally, one of them commented Will's activities with a whine. Buster snatched up a dropped roll of socks and disappeared to parts unknown, probably to maul his catch. “C'mon guys, don't give me that look.” On the way to his dresser, Will ruffled Winston's ears. “I'm not abandoning you. It's just for the weekend.”

 

An entire weekend with Hannibal. Will thought about the purchases he'd made at Wolf Trap's drugstore earlier today, now hidden on the bottom of the bag. Twice already he'd caught himself thinking about taking them out.

 

He zipped the bag shut, rolling his eyes at his mental antics. There was no guarantee the weekend wouldn't end in a catastrophe, making it a moot point to worry if bringing lube and condoms was being 'too forward', as Hannibal had put it.

 

One and a half hours later, Hannibal greeted him with a smile. This time, it was Will who hooked a finger into a belt loop and drew them together. Hannibal slid both hands under his jacket and pushed it off of him while they kissed, catching it dexterously and hanging it up. He trapped Will against the door. “Would it be welcome if I told you I missed you, or unwelcome?” he asked.

 

“Welcome,” Will rasped. Definitely welcome. He caught the undertone of the question. “Do you think we're going too fast?”

 

Hannibal thumbed at Will's lip. “I think for the first time in many years, I see the possibility for something permanent. It is rather...unexpected, and I find myself eagerly grasping for it. Not too eagerly, I hope.”

 

Will melted a little inside. “No complaints from my end.”

 

Hannibal squeezed his hip. “Come – I waited with dinner preparations. I thought perhaps you'd like to help again.”

 

No heads of cabbage in boiling water this time, but onions that needed to be peeled, bell peppers that needed to be chopped, mushrooms that needed to be cleaned. They worked side by side. Music drifted from hidden speakers, slightly dissonant – Ravel, Will thought, eyes stinging from onion fumes. He went to the sink to run his knife and the onion under cold water, and when he returned to the cutting board, Hannibal's shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

 

Will blinked at him through watering eyes. “Attractive, huh?”

 

“You did want to help,” Hannibal pointed out.

 

Will finished slicing up the onion and reached for the next one. “I'll bring a pair of diving goggles next time.”

 

Hannibal made an amused sound. “No great art was ever made without suffering. You get used to it.”

 

“The suffering or the onion fumes?”

 

“Both.”

 

Will piled the sliced onions and started in on the bell peppers and mushrooms. Watering eyes aside, he was enjoying this more than he'd thought he would, making him wonder if there wasn't some slight form of osmosis going on. He was good at picking up on other people's habits, their likes and dislikes; Hannibal obviously liked cooking. Will, on the other hand, was very good at setting microwave timers for TV dinners.

 

What else would he pick up from Hannibal, over time?

 

He reached for the next mushroom, his hand encountering empty space. “Anything else I can mangle?”

 

“I'm afraid not.” Hannibal was doing something complicated to long strips of dark meat. “Would you like to take a tour of the house while I finish up here?”

 

“By myself?”

 

“You hardly need a chaperone, Will. There's nothing in my home I want to keep a secret from you.” Hannibal glanced up, a smirk crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Go on. I'll catch up.”

 

The downstairs of Hannibal's house was comprised of the kitchen, the foyer, a large, study, a cosy living–room, and a small library filled floor–to–ceiling with shelffuls of books. Will wandered about, hands tucked in his pockets at first, until he became annoyed with himself.

 

This wasn't a museum. It was a home as much as Will's house was his home, regardless of the price tags attached.

 

Will ran his hands over brocade pillows on antique–looking settees, over the cloth–bound backs of books, over the polished wood of a harpsichord. Imagined himself, imagined _them_ – Hannibal here in the evenings after dinner, playing, Will with a book, listening, warmed by good food, company. A dog on the rug there, yawning contentedly. Maybe two dogs. Or three.

 

Almost too good to be true, but it was easy to let himself fantasize, and easier still to believe it was possible.

 

Upstairs, a lavish bathroom, another study, storage, more books. The master bedroom lay in sepulchral silence, the last of the day's light sneaking past half–drawn curtains. Will sat on the edge of the bed. Box with tissues on the bedside table, cast–iron bedside lamps, a book with a slip of paper as page–marker. The title was not in a language Will recognized.

 

The bedspread felt soft like warm butter under Will's palms. Maybe that was what he'd pick up from Hannibal: a taste for, an appreciation of luxury. He sank back, spread out his arms, relaxed with a sigh.

 

And stared into his own eyes.

 

He startled badly and was jackknifing off the bed already, the Will on the ceiling doing the same, when it dawned on him. _Mirrors_. The ceiling above the bed was covered in mirrors. He fell back with a huff, heart hammering in his chest. His wide–eyed reflection stared back at him.

 

“I should have warned you,” Hannibal's voice came from the doorway. “I'm sorry.”

 

“'s okay.” Will leaned up on his elbows. “It was just unexpected.” He looked up. “That's a little tacky, don't you think?”

 

Hannibal stepped into the room, also looking up. “A legacy from the previous owner. When I moved in, I thought about taking them down.”

 

“Must have been quite the narcissist.”

 

“Quite.”

 

“So why are you keeping them? No, wait.” Will already knew the answer.

 

Having sex in front of a mirror had to be like watching porn with yourself in the starring role. Will's mirror twin acquired a flush creeping up from his neck into his cheeks.

 

He swallowed. “Come here. Come closer.”

 

Hannibal's reflection moved into the space between Will's spread legs. Will could only see the top of his head, his shoulders. Hannibal's thighs rubbed against his, points of contact like brands. He crossed his ankles behind Hannibal's legs, trapping him.

 

“If you had a plan for _this_ ,” Will said tightly, still staring up, “consider it ruined, too.”

 

Hannibal didn't _quite_ pounce. He fell on Will in a sort of coordinated collapse, his arms taking most of his weight. Will watched the muscles strain under Hannibal's shirt, hands already moving greedily to yank the garment up, searching for skin. He hooked his feet over Hannibal's thighs and bucked his hips up. Hannibal groaned, grinding down against him.

 

Then he cupped Will's jaw. “Your wounds...”

 

Will switched from staring at his – their – reflection to staring at Hannibal. “I must be doing something wrong if you're still capable of coherent thought.”

 

A faint huff of laughter. Hannibal stroked his thumb over Will's cheek, letting more of his weight come down and pinning him to the mattress. “I don't want to injure you. I _have_ plans. They don't include trips to the emergency room.”

 

Will took brief stock of himself. He'd changed bandages before driving to Baltimore. The stitches had come out a few days ago. As long as they weren't going to attempt acrobatics, he should be fine. “Not gonna happen,” he decided. “Now will you _finally_ –”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal murmured, “yes,” and kissed him.

 

Will spread his legs wide. He kicked off his shoes, socked feet slipping on the bedspread, content to let Hannibal grind their hips together until it wasn't enough. He shoved a hand between their bodies, fumbling at Hannibal's belt.

 

Hannibal pulled his hand away, pulled back. He kissed Will again and stood, eyes hooded, an indulgent smirk on his lips. “Look up.”

 

Will ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Christ.” He looked up, watched Hannibal's hands slide up his legs toward his waist. He felt like a voyeur. Hannibal peeled down his jeans, pulling them off and Will's socks along with them. Will took a strained breath. “This is weird.”

 

“Shall I stop?”

 

“God, no. No.”

 

Hannibal ran a hand up Will's thigh, under the leg of his shorts, curled warm fingers around Will's cock. “There's nothing wrong with indulging in a little narcissism. It can be quite the experience, watching yourself take, or be taken.”

 

Will groaned low in his throat. The hand on him felt so good. He fumbled at his shirt buttons, wanting the damn thing off. Hannibal put his knee on the bed, leaning over him. He squeezed the base of Will's cock, then bent low and licked, cat-like, over the spot where a wet stain was spreading. He kissed Will's belly, rubbing his cheek against the sparse trail of dark hair there.

 

He worked his way up, stopping for tender nips at Will's chest, stretching out at his side, hand now resting on the waistband of Will's shorts.

 

Will stared up at their reflection. “Are you gonna keep your clothes on?”

 

“For now, yes. I want to watch.” Hannibal's fingertips strayed under the waistband, warm and ticklish. “You're a sight to behold.”

 

Will was, simply put, too horny to care what exactly he looked like. The discovery that he _liked_ the sight of himself spread on Hannibal's black bedspread, open-mouthed and ready, only pushed him that much closer to an already looming precipice. If Hannibal got turned on by watching – well. Win-win for all, as far as Will was concerned.

 

“Go for it,” he murmured, shifting impatiently.

 

Hannibal leaned over him, looking delighted. “With pleasure.”

 

It was a little dry at first, too much friction. Will bucked into it nevertheless, and soon, precome was making everything slippery and perfect. He came with a bitten-off cry, having to close his eyes at last when the sensations crested and swept him along. Hannibal petted him through the aftershocks, then pulled him close and held him while Will wound down.

 

After a few, blissful minutes, Will made another attempt at Hannibal's belt, only to have his hand caught a second time. “Later,” Hannibal mumbled, nosing through the hair at Will's temple. He made a little, satisfied huff. “I'm afraid I'm all but useless after climax.”

 

“Out like a light?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will had known men like that. Sometimes, he _was_ one of those men: come, roll over, snooze. “I wouldn't hold it against you.”

 

“Be that as it may, there's still dinner to attend to.”

 

Will nudged him under the chin. “Let me up, then. I'm pretty sure I'm staining your bedspread, anyway.”

 

Hannibal's loose hold tightened. “That can be washed.”

 

“Yeah, but I'm lying here bare-assed with come drying on me. Not that comfortable.”

 

Reluctantly, Hannibal let go. “Point taken. Would you like a shower?”

 

Will gathered up his clothes. The shorts had stains on them now. He stripped out of them. “Sounds good. I'll just fetch my bag.”

 

“I'll do that.” Hannibal ushered him toward the bathroom.

 

When Will came back from the shower, his bag sat unopened at the foot-end of the bed. The windows were open and the bedspread had been spirited away. Will eyed the clothes laid out across the dark blue sheets, a pair of pants and a sweater in dark grey. They could have been Hannibal's sleep clothes, but Will had a feeling they were meant for him.

 

He fingered the soft material of the pants. Then he put them on. Expecting the sleeves and pant legs to be too long – Hannibal was taller than him, broader around the shoulders and certainly longer-limbed – he was surprised to find they fit perfectly.

 

Barefoot, he went downstairs, finding Hannibal in the kitchen. Hannibal studied him, foot to head. “That colour suits you. I couldn't decide between grey and green.”

 

Will had just had Hannibal's hand on his cock barely twenty minutes ago, but this was another level of intimacy entirely and he suddenly didn't know how to deal with it.

 

Hannibal cocked his head. “Is something the matter?”

 

“You bought me clothes.”

 

“I did.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I want you to feel comfortable. Though it seems I've achieved the opposite.”

 

Will decided honesty was the best approach here. “It's...”

 

“Too intimate? Too early?” Hannibal guessed. “I apologize.”

 

Will ran a hand through his hair. “It's hard to explain.”

 

“You're not used to people doing nice things for you.”

 

“I don't _expect_ anyone to do nice things for me.”

 

Hannibal's reserved expression turned into curiosity. “Because you think you don't deserve them?”

 

“Because I'm an ass, most of the time.”

 

“I've yet to see evidence of that.”

 

“Just wait until I stand you up for a date because I'm doing research or something.”

 

“Oh, the horror. Just wait until I stand _you_ up because, god forbid, life interferes.”

 

The heavy sarcasm combined with the amused twinkle in Hannibal's eye did the trick; the feeling of awkwardness faded. “I just want you to know that I don't expect gifts.”

 

“Noted.” Hannibal crossed the kitchen, draping his arms over Will's shoulders. “But you do deserve them.”

 

Will groaned. “ _Hannibal_.”

 

“ _Will_.” Hannibal mimicked his tone of voice. “I'm a generous person. You'll have to get used to that.”

 

Like the luxury that surrounded him, the expensive furniture, the scents of excellent food. Even the quality of the clothes against his skin, finer than Will would ever have bothered buying for himself. His idea of comfort was to kick off his shoes and lounge around in whatever pants he'd worn during the day, or sweatpants if he was feeling frisky.

 

He couldn't quite get rid of the impression that Hannibal was trying to acclimatize him to a whole new set of creature comforts; part of Will rebelled against the idea.

 

But only part of him. “Okay,” he said, “I'll try.”

 

-

 

Dinner was some kind of _ragout_ with a dark sauce and baked potatoes. “What kind of meat is this?” Will asked.

 

“Liver.” Hannibal took a mouthful and chewed with his eyes closed. “Often overlooked in cuisine for its strong taste and fickleness in the pan. Cook it too long and it turns hard and dry, crumbling in the mouth.”

 

Will took another bite. The meat all but melted on his tongue. Despite the sauce and the multitude of spices, he could still taste faint traces of blood. “This is amazing. All your cooking is.”

 

Hannibal smiled. “Thank you. I'm curious, do you cook for yourself?”

 

“Not often. Not to the extent you do.”

 

“You never learned, or it doesn't interest you?”

 

Will shrugged. “Bit of both. My father didn't cook. He taught me how to fish, though. I'm a good fisherman.” He reached for his wine, leaning back in the chair. “What about you? How'd you end up with a career as a chef?”

 

“I wouldn't call it a career, more a natural conclusion of events. I spent many years in orphanages. The older children were put to work. I was lucky I was put to work in the kitchen.”

 

“Lucky?”

 

“It could have been a coal mine, or construction work.”

 

“That must have been harsh.”

 

Hannibal spread his hands. “It was as it was. I like to think my time in the orphanage prepared me for most hardships life is liable to throw at me. And as I said, I was lucky. At fourteen, I managed to attain an apprenticeship at an eatery in town. The owner helped me leave the country.”

 

“Where to?”

 

“Germany. From there, France. My mother's cousin lived there.”

 

“Ah. So the Paris boarding school...”

 

Hannibal threw him a smirk. “ _Madame_ was already well into her seventies when I arrived on her doorstep, and woefully unprepared to deal with an adolescent boy. I don't blame her for sending me away. I am, in fact, grateful. Not only did she pave my way into one of Paris' most prestigious schools, she also left me a small fortune when she died.”

 

“And then you moved to America.”

 

“The proverbial follower of the American dream. I was determined to make it.”

 

Will looked pointedly at the room around them. “I'd say you made it.”

 

Hannibal topped up their wine glasses. “What about you, Will? Always wanted to be a reporter?”

 

“Nah. I wanted to be a cop.”

 

“What stopped you?”

 

“I didn't pass the entrance exams.”

 

Hannibal eyed him. “Surely not out of a lack of intelligence or ambition.”

 

Maybe it was the wine, or the general sense of ease Will felt in the other man's presence; whatever it was, it loosened his tongue. “Psychological reasons.”

 

Hannibal swirled the wine in his glass. “They saw you as unstable.”

 

Will stared at him, brought up short. “That's astute.”

 

“I meant no insult.” Hannibal took his hand and squeezed lightly. “But am I right?”

 

“Yeah. Yes.”

 

“Then they were fools. You have a gift. Anyone who reads your articles can see that. It is only natural that it influences you.”

 

“You've been taking psychology courses, or what?” He meant for it to come out as a joke, but it came out harsher, accusatory. “Sorry.”

 

Hannibal pulled Will's hand up and kissed the knuckles. “Don't apologize. I appreciate honesty.”

 

“Most people don't.”

 

“I'm not most people.”

 

Will was beginning to see that. “No, you're not.”

 

-

 

After dinner, while Hannibal rummaged around in the kitchen and refused to let him help, Will checked his cellphone. He had a text message from Beverly asking how he was doing, a few work-related email alerts, and a missed call from a number he didn't know, with a Maryland prefix.

 

Nothing that couldn't wait until Monday.

 

Hannibal snagged him around the waist when their paths collided just outside the kitchen. He drew Will into the living room. Small cups of coffee were waiting on a low table. Will sank into the couch with a satisfied sigh. A full belly and the earlier bout of fooling around under the mirrors contributed to his overall feeling of boneless content.

 

Hannibal took a seat next to him. “Tired?”

 

“Full. I feel pampered.”

 

Hannibal's satisfied grin disappeared behind the rim of his cup. “Then I reached my goal.”

 

“Any plans for tomorrow or Sunday?”

 

“None whatsoever.”

 

They drank their coffee. Will kept sneaking glances, waiting to see impatience or ennui, but Hannibal seemed content to let the minutes pass without filling them with words. He was glad for it – glad that they could talk as well as sit in silence.

 

There was only one thing still missing from the picture. And as if reading Will's mind, Hannibal leaned over and kissed his jaw. “Come to bed.”

 

He must have gone up and closed the windows. A fire was flickering. The bedroom was warm and lay in shifting shadows, cosy and intimate. Will pushed him down on the edge of the mattress and straddled his lap.

 

He unbuttoned Hannibal's shirt, scratching lightly through the greying hair between well-formed pectorals, bending to taste a dark, tight nipple. He worked Hannibal's belt open. This time, he wasn't stopped. Hannibal's cock was a warm outline under briefs. Brow to Hannibal's chest, Will looked down between their bodies as he pulled the waistband down and curled his fingers around it, pulling up slowly. Hannibal was uncut.

 

Hannibal ran a hand down Will's spine, over his ass. “I suppose we should talk about -”

 

“I like fucking. I like being fucked.” Will watched the loose skin slip and slide, the head emerging a little slicker each time he stroked down. “There. We talked about it. Now fuck me.”

 

A noise from above that sounded suspiciously like a curse. They shed their clothes at the side of the bed. Will stretched out, caught sight of himself in the mirrors above: pale limbs kissed by firelight. Hannibal prowled to the bedside table, then crawled onto the bed to join him.

 

The slick fingers that slid into Will weren't too careful, just on the right side of rough to make things interesting. Hannibal rolled on a condom and fucked him face to face. He was good – selfish enough to keep Will pinned how he wanted him, cruel enough to be gentle when Will wanted faster, harder. He watched Will hungrily, and Will watched them both, up in the mirrors, the play of light and shadow over the plane of Hannibal's back, the shine of sweat in the groove of his spine.

 

Hannibal came with a savage snarl, driving in deep. The perfect, hard pounding became a lazy, indulgent grind until he was too soft for it and slipped out. Will sighed with the loss of it. Hannibal shifted off of him, shifted down, sloppily, wetly sucking him. He fingered the slick, sensitive rim of Will's hole and pressed three fingers in, cruel again and relentless, rubbing hard over Will's prostate until Will capitulated and came down his throat.

 

The aftermath was a mess of sweaty, tangled limbs, uncoordinated pawing for the tissue box on the bedside table, a lazy roll to avoid the wet spot. Hannibal laid his head on Will's shoulder and his palm over the bandage on Will's ribs. He mumbled something that wasn't in English, sighed, and was asleep before Will had finished pulling the blanket up over both of them.

 

-

 

Will startled awake. The fire had burned down and died, leaving him only with grey shadows and pockets of darkness accentuating the unfamiliar dimensions of Hannibal's bedroom. It smelled of stale smoke and sex, dried sweat.

 

They'd shifted during the night. Hannibal lay on his side, one arm extended between them, curled fingers brushing Will's shoulder. Will could only see the dark sweep of his eyelashes against a grey cheek, the slack line of his mouth.

 

Fragments turned in Will's mind like shards from a broken mirror sinking to the bottom of a pool of murky water, flashes of sharp-edged clarity in the fog. His heart ached. It wasn't _fair_.

 

He'd left his cellphone in the living room. As noiselessly as possible, he slid out of bed, navigated unfamiliar surroundings, shadows clawing at his throat. Every moment, he expected Hannibal's footsteps behind him, a hand on his shoulder, steel between his ribs again.

 

He stood, cellphone in hand, in the living, breathing darkness. Baltimore PD was just a call away.

 

There'd be evidence somewhere: something that tied Hannibal Lecter to the Chesapeake Ripper. Will had been right about Matthew Brown, and he knew he was right about Hannibal. It had just taken him a while to see it – longer than it should have.

 

Nine-one-one. So easy. All he had to do was dial.

 

He put the phone back.

 

Hannibal didn't stir when Will slipped back into bed.

 

-


	9. 9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this took a while. Needless to say, I've been squealing over the season finale like the madwoman I am, although now in retrospect I kind of want to delete all my stories and start over, because there was so much character development in the third season that it made my head spin. *nervous laugh*

**9.**

 

Outside loomed a slate–grey morning.

 

Hannibal was a very tidy sleeper. He'd barely moved during the night, hadn't snored or mumbled. Will pillowed his cheek on Hannibal's chest and listened to the metronome tick of his heart. Too soon, that rhythm changed.

 

“Good morning, Will.”

 

For a while, they just lay there, entwined. Hannibal curved his arm over Will's back and drew patterns with his fingertips, sometimes with his nails. Will tried not to shiver and failed.

 

“ _Is_ it a good morning?” Hannibal asked. “You don't look very well–rested.”

 

Damn ceiling mirrors. “Unfamiliar surroundings. Unfamiliar bed. I was expecting it.”

 

“You should have woken me.”

 

“Then we'd both be tired. Where's the sense in that?”

 

“We'd be tired together.”

 

“Misery loves company?”

 

Hannibal shifted until they were face to face. “I want to be a part of your life.” He tipped Will's chin up, leaning in. “Bad days and all.”

 

Will pretended it was morning breath and old wine he tasted, not the bitterness of the lie Hannibal had been weaving around him. Hannibal kissed as if he'd studied it and didn't let up until Will's lips felt as swollen and tender as his mind.

 

Will tucked his head under Hannibal's chin. “You kiss me like I'm fragile.”

 

Hannibal made an amused sound, carding his fingers through Will's hair. “Not fragile. Precious. Also tired, otherwise I'd show you just how fragile I think you are.” Meaningfully, he nudged their hips together. “Maybe later.”

 

Will didn't want to think about later. He wanted to be blind; he wanted another epiphany that showed him he was wrong about Hannibal and the Chesapeake Ripper being one and the same, that this was just a case of him spending too much time staring into the abyss and seeing ghosts everywhere as a result.

 

Hannibal arranged the blanket around them, creating a cocoon, and drew him even closer. “Close your eyes.”

 

It was easy to follow the gentle command, easier still to live the lie for a little bit longer. The next time Will opened his eyes, it was brighter in the bedroom, and he was alone. The digital clock on the night stand informed him it was 10 AM, Satuday. One of the windows was open, letting in fresh, cool air. He didn't remember falling asleep; he felt no less tired. The blanket was tucked around him as if it mattered.

 

As if Hannibal cared.

 

Hannibal was a sadist.

 

He'd want Will to feel secure, cared for, to make the reveal of his true self all the more cruel and satisfying. Sadists took pleasure from the pain and anguish of others. Will couldn't think of a more sadistic thing than the pretence of care and the revelling in the ruins of it.

 

He sat up, wincing when certain muscles protested. Looking down, he discovered a flaking patch of semen crusted on the edge of the bandage over his ribs. He scraped at it. In his mind, Kade Purnell stood at the foot end of the bed, wearing that trademark pinch–faced expression.

 

She looked him up and down. _You profile murderers by proxy, yet you miss the one_ _fucking you?_

 

It took some serious balls, or a serious god complex, to begin a relationship with the one person best suited to see through the cleverly constructed façade. Will was willing to lay bets it had been part of the appeal, if not the _entire_ appeal. The sting to his pride didn't hurt nearly as much as the acknowledgement of the ease with which he had fallen for Hannibal's charade.

 

Now Will's eyes were open: _now what?_

 

He had no idea, only vague impulses, half–formed and aimless. If all of this was a plan, then it followed logically that Hannibal had planned for Will's eventual becoming aware of the truth as well. The Chesapeake Ripper left nothing to chance.

 

Will dragged himself out into the bathroom for a thorough shower. He brushed his teeth, dressed in the clothes Hannibal had bought for him, and went downstairs.

 

The tantalizing smells of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon permeated the air of the first floor. Will stopped on the last step and listened. Classic music again. From the direction of the kitchen came the sharp clack–clack–clack of metal against wood.

 

Hannibal stood at the island, mincing herbs. “Breakfast is almost ready. The coffee _is_ ready.”

 

“Smells delicious.” Will bee-lined for the French press on the counter by the sink.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

“Better. I'll take another nap later, unless your plans have changed?”

 

“Our plans,” Hannibal corrected. “My weekdays are usually very busy. I appreciate quiet weekends. I have hopes I can entice you outside tomorrow for a chance to stretch our legs, but other than that, I will be perfectly content to do nothing.”

 

Will waited a beat. “Not even me?”

 

Hannibal's head came up slowly. Perfectly deadpan, he said, “Exceptions will be made.”

 

Will chuckled, feeling fractured. Hannibal was making omelettes, and he was wearing an old–fashioned house coat and slippers, and he wanted to go for a walk tomorrow, as though they were an old married couple doing their weekend routine.

 

It would be so damnably easy to learn to crave that routine, to need it as something normal against which he could measure everything else. If not for that little hiccup in the romance where Hannibal was a serial killer and Will his next intended victim, this was what people gushed about when they talked about finding 'the one'.

 

Such a strange, charming man. Such a devil.

 

If Will could have watched from a distance and interpreted the evidence later, lived that second–hand life until it reached its bloody conclusion, he would have wanted to let it continue, because...

 

Because.

 

Maybe there was a part of him that wasn't staring into the abyss, but trying to find its way back _in_.

 

“Will,” Hannibal sounded quietly amused, “you're leaning.”

 

“Sorry. Give me something to do. Keep me awake.”

 

“I'm afraid I'm almost done.”

 

Will was no match for anyone in this state. He could barely keep his thoughts together. “I'm gonna walk around a bit. Check my phone.”

 

There was nothing of interest on his phone, no missed calls, no new messages. He tried to give himself a push, _the_ push he needed to finally do what he should have done hours ago, but no matter how hard he stared at the small screen, his fingers wouldn't move over the numbers 9–1–1. After a few minutes, the screen went black.

 

Will sipped his coffee and studied the framed drawing on the wall behind the couch. The _Wound Man_ was a relatively obscure medical study from the Middle Ages, showing a man's body riddled with a variety of injuries and the implements that caused them. Will was familiar with the original drawing because it was mentioned in the FBI files on the Ripper.

 

 _This_ Wound Man wasn't the original. This Wound Man was Jeremy Olmstead.

 

This framed drawing showed Hannibal's signature in the bottom right corner.

 

Facts pulsed before Will's eyes like light in the darkness, beacons to ships out at sea. Better for them to sink.

 

Jeremy Olmstead was believed to be the first Chesapeake Ripper victim. He'd been found in his garage, stretched out on a work table, his body impaled, cut open, pinched and pierced with just about every item from his tool kit.

 

Olmstead had been an ass, according to his few acquaintances and relatives, and a hunter. He'd had minor run–ins with the law, mostly over poaching. It wasn't too far–fetched to imagine that this was how his path had crossed Hannibal's, over a decade ago. _Mischa's_ hadn't existed then, but Hannibal had most certainly been working as a cook. Many of the dishes listed on his restaurant's menu contained venison, which could hint at a personal preference.

 

Hunter. Cook. Supplier. Buyer.

 

There was no paper trail in the files to prove Will's theory; he didn't need it. Even if he was wrong about that, the man in the drawing _was_ Jeremy Olmstead, eyes turned heavenward in agonized rapture. Hannibal had captured him perfectly, down to the small scar on Olmstead's thigh, from an injury attained during a hunting accident a few weeks prior to his death.

 

Will sighed and drained the last drops of coffee. He knew all this, but he still didn't know what to do.

 

That was a lie.

 

He knew what he _should_ do, but it wasn't what he wanted.

 

Turning to head back to the kitchen, Will froze. Hannibal stood at arm's length – had walked up behind Will while he stood wool–gathering. He looked concerned, but there was something else in those dark eyes, something _hungry_ and calculating, and Will couldn't understand how he hadn't seen that before.

 

Hannibal lifted a hand toward him, slowly, as if to soothe a startled animal. “Easy.”

 

_He knows._

 

“Easy,” Hannibal repeated.

 

Panic short–circuited rational thought. Dropping the cup, Will slapped the approaching hand to the side. Hannibal was saying something, but it was only noise adding to the noise already building to a tumultuous roar in Will's head. He threw himself forward, attempting to barrel past the other man. Hannibal caught him around the middle.

 

They went down in a tangle of limbs. Will landed on top, and immediately tried to scramble up the prone body underneath his. He had to – he needed – he couldn't _bite_ –

 

Hannibal wrapped an arm around the back of Will's neck, keeping him in place, and his legs around Will's ribs, and arching up from the floor he clamped down like a vice. The pressure was incredible. Will fought against the stranglehold for as long as he could, his ribs creaking in protest. The bones of his neck had never felt more fragile. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't think, and when he bit down he got a mouthful of silk house coat, not flesh and blood.

 

Black spots bloomed before Will's eyes, threatening to engulf him. Just before he slipped into the waiting darkness, he experienced a moment of pure, undiluted panic.

 

The Chesapeake Ripper tortured his victims. Will knew _exactly_ what he'd wake up to, if he woke at all.

 

–

 

Consciousness returned unkindly, with a lungful of air that burned. Will opened his eyes. His brain was sloshing between his ears. He had the mother of all headaches and her sisters were knocking to be let in the door.

 

He was on a flat surface, stretched out on his front. After a while, the wobbly lines surrounding him straightened: Will felt no relief when he recognized the night stand next to the big bed in Hannibal's bedroom.

 

And there, just at the edge of Will's vision, was the man himself: different house coat, bare feet propped up on the edge of the bed, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Hannibal lifted the glass in a salute.

 

Panic gripped Will anew. He struggled to hands and knees.

 

Hannibal appeared at the side of the bed. “No,” he said, “I don't think so.” From his pocket, he pulled a small, brown bottle.

 

Will fought, hampered by the blanket. Hannibal held him down and uncapped the bottle one–handed. The bitter sting of chemicals in Will's nasal passage pushed him under the surface of an oily, tranquil sea. For a while, he drifted, disconnected from thought, sensation, reality. Things at the bottom of the sea reached for him, sliding thin tentacles over his skin, into his crevices.

 

It was not a _bad_ sensation. It was the downward pull that caused Will to thrash, screaming and fighting for a hold. The surface was so close and yet so far away.

 

Finally, he broke free and woke, sweat–soaked and gasping for breath, his heart hammering. He was still in bed, in Hannibal's bedroom, in Hannibal's house, with his legs tangled in the blanket and his hands gripping fistfuls of the sheets. The natural light in the room painted a not very flattering reflection of Will in the mirrors above the bed, with straggly, damp hair, wide eyes, and ashen skin.

 

As soon as his breathing slowed down to something less panicky, the headache hit and with it, nausea. Will sat up, swallowing bile, and felt the phantom impressions of _something_ slithering away from him, leaving him shaking and shivering in its wake.

 

“You _wanted_ me to see it,” he croaked. “You're the Chesapeake Ripper. You wanted me to know.”

 

Hannibal sat in an armchair in the corner by the door, one leg folded over the other. He'd changed into slacks and a dark shirt open at the collar. He didn't deny the accusation.

 

Will began to shake in earnest. At home, his dogs would have been huddled around him by now. Here, he had only the cold comfort of sheets and a blanket damp with his sweat, and the company of a serial killer watching him as though he was a show attraction.

 

At length, Hannibal said, “You have a fever. You've been smelling a bit off for a while now. I believe we should take you to see a doctor.”

 

Will didn't even know what to make of that. He ignored the bit about the smelling for the sake of his sanity. “So I'll be in good health when you kill me?” His attempt at sarcasm fell flat, marred by the chatter of his teeth.

 

Hannibal moued. “Really, Will. Is that what you think I'll do?”

 

“Yes,” Will said flatly. “That's what serial killers _do_.”

 

Rising from his seat, Hannibal went to a closet. “Does that frighten you, or does it excite you? You panicked when I surprised you earlier, but you didn't have your moment of clarity this morning in the living room, did you? You had it earlier. Tonight, perhaps. It wouldn't let you sleep.”

 

Will clutched the blanket around his shoulders. He knew what was coming, what Hannibal was getting at.

 

Hannibal turned from the closet, a bundle of clothes over his arm. “Yet you were still in my bed this morning, wrapped rather tightly around me when I woke.”

 

“I'm not _excited_ ,” Will snarled.

 

Unperturbed, Hannibal laid the clothes out at the foot of the bed. “Interested, then? Curious? Or,” he inclined his head, smiling, “were you planning to catch me? To kill me? I wouldn't blame you. I would be furious, in your stead. I'd feel used and betrayed. Yet you did neither. You didn't attempt to kill me, and you didn't call the police. You had ample opportunity to do both.”

 

The headache pulsed behind Will's eyes. Hannibal's matter–of–fact but also so _smug_ tone of voice grated on nerves already stretched to the breaking point. The worst thing was, Hannibal was right. Will hadn't done what any rational person would have done.

 

Hannibal headed for the door. “I've prepared dinner. Join me when you feel like it, though I would appreciate it if you showered first.”

 

That caught Will entirely unprepared. “You're just going to let me wander around?”

 

Hannibal looked back over his shoulder. “If you want to leave, I wouldn't stop you. If you want to call the police, your cellphone is right there next to you, on the night stand. Alternately, you may use my land line.”

 

His cell phone really was there. Will tried to think past the glass shards poking the insides of his skull. Hannibal wasn't pretending to be unconcerned, he _was_ unconcerned. Will put two and two together. “There's no evidence, is there? Just that drawing.”

 

“What drawing?” Hannibal asked, and walked out.

 

Will ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, which really didn't help his headache. Painstakingly slowly, he untangled himself from the blanket and tested his legs. The sedative, drug, whatever Hannibal had used, had hit him like a freight train. Locating his bag, he scrounged around for his Aspirin bottle, grimacing at the bitter taste of the pills.

 

None of this made sense.

 

Will cleared that thought from his head. It was the wrong approach. It only had to make sense to Hannibal. This was Hannibal's game, and he wasn't done yet.

 

Showering was a minor ordeal. Will had to lean against the tiled wall for balance, his headache slowly receding to manageable levels while the feeling of general queasiness worsened. The clothes Hannibal had laid out for him were Hannibal's – black, loose pants, V–necked sweater, too large on Will. Will thought about putting on his own clothes just to make a point, but it felt silly to make that point _now_ , when they'd already been skin to skin.

 

He made it to the stairs. Halfway down, he had to sit. The walls were tilting at odd angles.

 

Hannibal appeared at the bottom step. “Do you require assistance?”

 

“What the hell did you use on me?”

 

“Chloroform. Do you need help?”

 

“No.”

 

With a small nod, Hannibal folded his arms.

 

“That wasn't an invitation to hover,” Will ground out.

 

Hannibal smiled that tiny smile of his.

 

After a few minutes, when it felt less like he was going to collapse or throw up, Will dragged himself to the living room, Hannibal at his heels. The _Wound Man_ was gone. The wooden frame now held a tasteful but completely bland black and white photograph of a pair of swans gliding over a tranquil, mist–shrouded lake.

 

With a disgusted sigh, Will turned to the other man. “What'd you do, burn it?”

 

“Nothing so dramatic, or so blasphemous.”

 

“You put it up just for me.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Why_?”

 

Hands clasped behind his back, Hannibal stood at Will's side. “I could have mentioned my extracurricular activities over dinner, or waited for you to find out over time. This seemed more fitting. I was curious. Matthew and I discussed your abilities at length.”

 

“What does Matthew...” Will trailed off, digesting the information. An ugly suspicion formed, took root, and grew vines. It seemed impossible, but with every second that passed it became more and more probable, and there was only one viable reaction to that.

 

He punched Hannibal in the face.

 

His second punch was deflected, and before he knew what was happening, he was propelled across the room. Will's head smacked against the wall. The taste of copper flooded his mouth. Hannibal pressed up behind him, too intimately, too _close_ –

 

The Ripper – Hannibal – was a predator. He revelled in violence. Nothing beat that rush of adrenaline that came with a fight, nothing was sweeter than the victory over his prey. Hannibal wasn't quite _human_ , and Will brushed up against primordial desires and saw something raw and red at their centre, something that had no name and was comprised entirely of hunger. He'd never been this close before. It was overwhelming.

 

When he regained his senses, he was held up by Hannibal's wiry bulk plastering him against the wall. Hannibal was making shushing noises, pulling his head down. Will smelled aftershave, spices. He rested his brow against Hannibal's shoulder, listening to the frantic, shallow gasps of his own breath.

 

After a while, Hannibal asked, “Do you think you can walk to the couch?”

 

Will could. He curled into a corner of the couch. He was utterly exhausted now, bone–deep weary. His head throbbed anew, and his cheek stung where he'd bitten it. This weekend was hell on his health.

 

Hannibal leaned over him, one hand extended. Will shrank away. “I'm not going to harm you,” Hannibal promised, trying again, slower. The dichotomy between what he knew Hannibal was capable of and the way Hannibal was touching him now, gently, threw Will's mind into yet another tailspin.

 

“You'll have a bump,” Hannibal diagnosed, pulling away. “Nothing serious.”

 

Will finally gave into the laughter that had been bubbling under the surface ever since he'd regained consciousness in Hannibal's bed earlier. It came out in short, hacked–off bursts. “This is what Alice felt like,” he gasped between breaths. “When's the tea party?”

 

“You're not mad,” Hannibal said patiently. “I'll be back in a moment.”

 

When he returned, he carried an ice pack and a glass of water. The ice soothed Will's head and the water washed away the copper taste. He should have been more cautious about accepting anything that could be used to drug him, but he was _done_ ; if killing him was the goal, Hannibal could have done that a dozen times already in the last half hour.

 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. “You knew Matthew was going after me,” Will said when it felt like he could talk without descending into hysterics again. “You sent him.”

 

“Matthew was impatient and borderline paranoid. He went after you on his own.”

 

“But you knew. And you didn't stop him.”

 

“You stopped him just fine. Permanently. I was, and am, rather grateful.”

 

Will leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Did I do you a favour?”

 

Hannibal made an amused sound. “Don't get the wrong idea, please. On some level, Matthew may have been aware of my nature, but he didn't know who I am.”

 

“Serial killers aren't pack hunters.”

 

“Precisely. Before or after he'd revealed himself, Matthew was no threat to me.”

 

“He called himself a garden variety killer. Not in your league?”

 

“Irrelevant. I don't compete with others.”

 

All the Ripper kills were personal. The theatrical arrangements of the crime scenes were first and foremost for Hannibal's own amusement. He was in his own league not because he aspired to surpass others, but because that was who he was.

 

Will exhaled a shaky breath. “What do you want from me?”

 

“I find your company...” Hannibal hesitated.

 

“If the next word is 'amusing', I _will_ kill you.”

 

“'Interesting' is the word I was looking for.”

 

“I'm not sure that's a compliment.”

 

“It's not an insult, either. Would 'engaging' suit you better?”

 

Will looked at him. “I'm a threat. I know who you are.”

 

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. “And what are you going to do with that knowledge, I wonder.”

 

Will could go to the police. He could go to the FBI. He spun that scenario to its natural conclusion, again. It would be his word against Hannibal's. Without evidence, no court of law was going to convict an upstanding citizen of crimes no one could prove he'd committed, and the one piece of evidence Hannibal had let him see was now gone.

 

Gone because Will had deliberately wasted time. And they both knew that.

 

Hannibal shifted closer. “You don't _really_ want them to arrest me, do you?”

 

Will couldn't say it out loud. He shook his head.

 

“It's all right,” Hannibal murmured. He squeezed Will's shoulder. “Would you like to leave?”

 

Will shook his head again.

 

“Would you like me to leave you alone?”

 

“No.”

 

Hannibal was looking at him with an expression that made Will feel simultaneously appreciated and threatened. There was no real emotion there other than hunger. Hannibal didn't operate on the same levels as other people. He was _fascinating_.

 

Will realized he'd long since cleared the edge of that abyss. Down was the only way to go now. “What's for dinner?”

 

–

 


	10. 1o.

**1o.**

 

Hannibal had prepared lamb skewers for dinner. The kitchen smelled of cumin and garlic, homely and warm. Will circled the kitchen island, feeling removed from reality, sense and sanity. His mind was in a state of chaos. He was about to have dinner with the Chesapeake Ripper – and the meal itself: Will could have written a book about the symbolism involved, the connotations, biblical and otherwise.

 

He retreated to the chair in the corner. For once, he didn't ask if he could help.

 

“This is new for me, as well.” Hannibal arranged green beans on two plates, garnishing with tiny cubes of baked bacon and drizzles of golden fat from the pan. “Try to relax. Today was rough on you.”

 

Ire rose in Will, sharp and hot. “ _You_ were rough on me. Don't coddle me now.”

 

The pink tip of Hannibal's tongue darted out, licking delicately at the dark line bisecting his lower lip, courtesy of Will's knuckles.

 

Will ignored the obvious hint. Hannibal had more than deserved that. “What's going to happen now?”

 

“A good meal and rest. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

 

“And where will I sleep?”

 

“Wherever you want. I have a guest room, if you'd rather sleep there.”

 

“You don't really care, do you?”

 

“I'm simply being courteous.”

 

The smooth, almost flippant answer caused something in the vicinity of Will's chest to tighten and ache. Once past the initial aversion, he'd fallen for Hannibal, hard. Clearly, those feelings weren't – and had never been – reciprocated. Will couldn't even blame Hannibal, no matter how much he wanted to. He'd read the FBI's profile on the Chesapeake Ripper, and while he didn't agree with everything, he did agree that a killer like that had to have sociopathic markings.

 

Sociopaths were charming liars, masters of manipulation, among other things. Hannibal had simply done what he did best. From his point of view, there was nothing wrong with his actions.

 

Will watched the other man work. Now and then, their eyes met. Hannibal seemed content to leave Will to his silence. Strangely, it reminded Will of how _he_ acted when he brought home a new dog. It was better to let the animal become acclimatized naturally, rather than overwhelming them with too much attention. It wasn't a very flattering comparison, but it was certainly apt; Will felt rather out of his depth and overwhelmed, both by today's events and his – insane, crazy, impossible – want to go along with it.

 

Finally, he broke the silence. “When did you decide to let me live?”

 

Hannibal thought for a moment. “I was planning to kill you in case Matthew failed. He was convinced your visit to _Mischa's_ meant you were on to him.”

 

“I wasn't. Christ, if he hadn't come after me, you guys would never have seen me again.”

 

“Like I said, Matthew was borderline paranoid. While I don't share his paranoia, I am very aware of what you can do. Your articles speak for themselves.” Hannibal winked. “One can never be too careful.” He grew solemn again, staring at nothing. “But then I saw you lying there, next to him. It seemed unfair. You'd won the battle, but you wouldn't have been able to enjoy the victory. I decided to give you that chance.”

 

Will's stomach did a slow flip. _Enjoy the victory_. He'd been all but tying himself into knots over what he'd done, for days.

 

No. That wasn't true.

 

There _had_ been moments when he'd enjoyed it. When he was glad Matthew was dead. When he was content to have done it.

 

Hannibal donned a pair of gloves to retrieve the steaming lamb skewers from the oven. “Everything that came after happened on its own.”

 

Will snorted. “Did it?”

 

Hannibal looked at him pointedly. “I didn't drag you screaming and kicking to my bed, Will. Don't lie to yourself.”

 

A lie would have been easier to deal with.

 

Hannibal balanced two plates on one arm. “Dinner is ready.”

 

The dining room looked especially inviting tonight. Lit candles presided over a beautiful arrangement of feathers and bones shaped into a fantasy creature taking flight from a nest. In the otherwise dark room, with the lights dimmed to a pleasant glow, the table was a haven, warm and safe, and Will could see how Hannibal would arrange it like that on purpose to coax in even the most reluctant of guests, but he could also see that it was something Hannibal himself enjoyed.

 

Courteous as ever, Hannibal pulled out the chair for him. His hand hovered over Will's shoulder, only for a moment, before he took a seat. “You should give some consideration to what I told you earlier. Your scent...bothers me. Have you been feeling ill lately?”

 

Will had completely forgotten about that part of their exchange. It made no more sense now than it had then. “How do you even...”

 

“I have a rather acute sense of smell. I first noticed it as a student, in Paris. One of my teachers was dying of stomach cancer.”

 

“You can smell cancer.”

 

“I can smell _something_ on you. It does not smell like cancer. It simply smells wrong,” Hannibal explained, visibly amused by Will's deadpan delivery. “I've yet to be wrong in that department.”

 

“This is getting surreal. I'm not sure whether to be worried or amused.”

 

“Humour me, then. I'd rather not cut our time together short because you succumbed to an illness.”

 

Will stared at the food on his plate. Their time together. That was the crux of the matter. The big reveal was out of the way and surprisingly, Will was still alive. He'd been presented with the chance to observe, from up close, one of the killers he wrote about. Just like the offer the FBI had made him, it was nigh irresistible.

 

Only this time, it wasn't just a glance behind the curtain. He was _already_ in up to his neck, sitting here at Hannibal's table. He'd read the Ripper case files. He knew about the thirty-seven _known_ victims. Hannibal's was not a company he should want, no matter for what reasons. Wanting it – being aware of what Hannibal was capable of and finding he could tolerate it was a side of himself Will hadn't previously been aware of, and its discovery left him floundering.

 

Fluidity of morals or lack thereof was something he saw and judged in others. He hadn't expected to find in himself.

 

-

 

Hannibal readied the guest room for him and bade him a good night. Will lay in the darkness. No mirrors on the ceiling. He rolled around, trying to get comfortable. He was so tired he should have dropped off to sleep right away, yet his thoughts kept going in circles, keeping him awake, slippery, quicksilver fish he couldn't catch a hold of. Perhaps it was better that way. He didn't want to think, just for a few hours.

 

He didn't want to be alone, either, and after haggling fruitlessly with himself, decided he didn't have to be.

 

Hannibal was still up. He acquitted Will's unannounced entry into the master bedroom with a look of calm interest, closing the book he'd been reading.

 

“Don't say anything,” Will muttered, sliding into bed next to him.

 

Hannibal remained silent. Will rolled onto his side, finally comfortable in the pocket of warmth he found under the blanket. He listened to the thump of the book being set down on the night stand, to the soft crackle of the mattress when Hannibal shifted and switched off the light. Hannibal folded himself against Will's back so slowly and carefully one could have gotten the impression he was unsure of his welcome; Will suspected he was rather intent on not spooking him. He doubted Hannibal was ever unsure about anything.

 

Finally, a soft gust of breath, a pleased hum, stirred the hair at the back of Will's neck. It was the last thing he was consciously aware of before sleep claimed him.

 

-

 

A deep, resonant gong woke him.

 

The digital clock on the night stand told him it was 11 AM. A light headache drummed at the back of his head, the bump on his brow hurt, and he felt chilled although the blanket was tucked around him. He'd dreamed, but he couldn't remember what; he needed a moment to sort himself into reality, to remember that yesterday had happened, where he was, and who he was with. After a few moments of numb staring, he realized he was staring at his bottle of Aspirin on the night stand, and the tall glass of water next to it.

 

There'd been instances over the last few weeks where Will felt under the weather, thinking he was coming down with something. Maybe there was truth to Hannibal's claim to be able to smell it.

 

Will swallowed two pills and slowly sipped the water. He heard a door clap somewhere in the house, voices. He hadn't imagined or dreamed the gong.

 

_Not gong. Doorbell._

 

Lingering fatigue made him sluggish as he dragged himself out of bed. At least the wooziness was gone. How the hell had Hannibal gotten his hands on chloroform? Will was pretty sure that stuff was regulated and not accessible to the public.

 

He went downstairs and followed the sound of conversation into the dining room.

 

“Ah,” Freddie Lounds said cheerily, “good morning.”

 

Will stared and blinked, but the picture didn't change: that _was_ Freddie Lounds, sitting to Hannibal's left at the dining table, lifting a dainty coffee cup to her lips. At the head of the table, regal, Hannibal was buttering a bagel. His expression was perfectly neutral. His eyes were hard. Will lifted a shoulder in an infinitesimal shrug, genuinely confused; he had no idea what Freddie Lounds was doing here, or how she'd even found out where Will was.

 

Hannibal's posture relaxed an inch. “You're just in time. Join us?”

 

Will rounded the table and took his place to Hannibal's right. Unabashedly, Freddie looked him up and down over the rim of her cup. Her gaze seemed to linger on the reddened spot on Will's brow where his head had slammed against the wall last night; he forced himself not to look at the gash his knuckles had left in Hannibal's lip. She'd draw her own conclusions. He didn't need to fumble around for an explanation to deny or confirm them.

 

Freddie turned to Hannibal. “Again, I'm very sorry for disturbing your weekend. But you see, Mister Graham here is one of a kind.”

 

“That's all right, Miss Lounds, we -”

 

Will cut in. “How the hell did you find me?”

 

“I have my ways,” Freddie said. “Tricks of the trade.”

 

“Bullshit.” Will wasn't buying it. “Have you been following me?”

 

Freddie only smiled enigmatically. Will wanted to strangle her and channelled the impulse into viciously gutting a bread roll. Freddie was the last person he'd expected to have to deal with on top of yesterday's events.

 

Freddie set her cup down. “There's been a murder, yesterday. The body was discovered in Little Italy, and it's a bit of a mess. You're our new go-to guy for the crazy ones, Mister Graham, so...here I am.”

 

Will looked up from the carnage on his plate. “A new Ripper murder?”

 

“We're not sure. I thought you might want to take a look and tell us.”

 

Will glanced at Hannibal. It was Hannibal's turn to shrug, though he did so more with his eyebrows than with his shoulders. The message was clear. _I didn't kill anyone last night_.

 

“Your boyfriend here can come along, if that helps you decide faster,” Freddie said, with an edge of impatience to her voice. “They need me there, I can't wait all morning until you've made up your mind. Yes or no?”

 

Will hesitated. His interest was piqued, but he was peeved at Freddie's sudden appearance, and he didn't want to set a precedent. He already _had_ a job and didn't need anyone at the FBI to think they had a right to call on him at all hours.

 

Hannibal reached over, squeezing Will's hand. “We did want to go for a walk, remember?”

 

-

 

They went upstairs to get dressed. Freddie waited outside, in her car. While Hannibal ushered her out, Will had run his hands along the underside of the table and over the chair, checking for any 'gifts'. He was certain Freddie had covertly been observing him. That was the only way she could have found out where he was spending the weekend. Maybe _he_ was being paranoid now, but he estimated Freddie was the kind of person to resort to subterfuge to achieve what she wanted; he didn't put it past her to try to install some kind of listening device.

 

Now, Will frowned at Hannibal, doubt gnawing at him. “You drugged me. You could have left while I was out.”

 

“I did not leave you alone. Chloroform is not an easy substance to work with.”

 

“Why drug me at all?”

 

“I needed you quiet for a while. Not,” Hannibal said pointedly, “because I needed to go out. I was here the whole time. I checked on you every few minutes to make sure you weren't vomiting and choking on it.”

 

Will digested that. “You can't just drug me whenever it suits you. Do that again and I'll hurt you.” He examined the thought. Yes. He meant it. “Badly.”

 

“Noted,” Hannibal said dryly. “Is this going to be a recurring event? Am I going to have FBI agents at my door every weekend?”

 

“I'm not happy to see her, either,” Will pointed out. “Especially not her.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“She thinks I'm the Ripper.”

 

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on either of them. Will couldn't help the grin spreading on his face, and the corners of Hannibal's mouth were twitching as well. Rationally speaking, it wasn't funny, but oh, if only Freddie Lounds _knew_.

 

Mirth fading, Will pulled on his shoes. No one could ever know what he was doing here.

 

Hannibal insisted on taking the Bentley. They followed Freddie's Jeep through Baltimore's Sunday morning traffic. The crime scene was on Stiles Street, in a tall, grey building squeezed in between a clothing store and a wholesale food market. Freddie flashed her badge at the Baltimore PD officers guarding the entrance and just like that, Hannibal and Will were in a narrow, cramped hallway with graffiti on the walls and the stale smell of cooked food in the air.

 

On the landing of the third floor, Freddie turned to Hannibal. “I'm afraid you'll have to wait here. Protocol and all, and it's...not a pretty sight. I wouldn't want to expose you to that.”

 

“I understand,” Hannibal said solemnly. In his expensive coat, polished shoes and pressed slacks, he looked completely out of place. Every crime scene tech, agent and police officer they'd met had looked at him askance.

 

Will stared down the long hallway. All the way at the end, police had curtained off the entrance to one of the apartments. The men and women of Baltimore PD outside the door stood together in a tight cluster, shoulders hunched, and conversed in hushed tones. When Will and Freddie approached, they gave them haunted looks. It was hard not to become immediately affected by the subdued mood. Will wasn't used to doing this with people around.

 

Then someone lifted the police caution tape, allowing him in. The heavy scent of copper hit him like a wave. He forgot all about the audience.

 

It was a small apartment, just a wide open space with a separate bathroom and kitchen. The victim, an elderly man, lay in the approximate centre of the room, face-up, legs straight and arms crossed over his chest with his hands flat on his shoulders. He was naked. Will thought of mummies and funeral rites, but then something caught his attention. Cautiously, he moved closer, avoiding the large puddles of dried blood already measured and marked by the forensic investigators. The body of the victim was wrapped in some kind of translucent material. The blood spatters around him had an odd look.

 

Will had a few minutes to take everything in before a man in a white CS suit crossed the room, hands up in a stopping gesture. “Sir, I'm going to have to insist you -”

 

“It's fine, Frederick.” Freddie Lounds appeared at Will's side. “He's allowed to be here. This is Will Graham.”

 

The man, Frederick, scrutinized Will. “Ah. The reporter. I heard we'd be working with you now and then. Well, nice to meet you.”

 

The disparaging tone of voice said all Will needed to hear. _Freddie and Frederick_. Two of a kind. “What's that the victim is covered in?”

 

“Cellophane,” Frederick told him. “We found two empty rolls in the trash can in the kitchen.”

 

“How was he killed?”

 

“Can't say for sure until we've autopsied him, but preliminary impressions suggest he was strangled. His throat was cut afterwards.”

 

“That's not the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

 

Freddie clucked her tongue. “So sure so quickly?”

 

Even if Hannibal hadn't told him, Will wouldn't have needed more time to be sure. “It's a mess. The Ripper doesn't leave messes.”

 

“Art, right?” Freddie smiled, all ice. “That's what you call it in your articles.”

 

Will barely looked at her. “It's not a Ripper kill.”

 

“Then whose is it?” Frederick asked.

 

Will blinked at the other man. “How the hell should I know?”

 

“Isn't that what you do? Magically interpret crime scenes and all but pointing out the breadcrumb trail to the killer's doorstep?” Frederick sounded disparaging again. “I've read some of your articles and your column in the _Baltimore Sun_. I always wondered how you arrive at your strangely accurate interpretations, considering you don't seem to have any kind of criminological education. Care to elaborate? Or better yet, demonstrate?”

 

“Yes,” Freddie said, “please do.”

 

Will looked from Frederick to Freddie. It wasn't a coincidence that neither Kade Purnell nor Doctor Bloom were present, and now that he'd seen the crime scene he didn't think there'd ever been any doubt that this _wasn't_ a Ripper kill. Freddie was trying to rattle him. She'd baited him. She'd either done it just to annoy him, or she was secretly hoping that confronting him with carnage would have some kind of impact – short-circuit him into confessing to being the Ripper, perhaps.

 

If that was the plan, it sucked. Will suddenly had had enough. “It's about transformation. The victim is laid out like an Egyptian mummy, but if you look at the blood pattern on the floor, you'll see it resembles wings. I'm sure the killer did that. And it's not bird wings, or angel wings – it's moth wings. They have a very distinct shape. Add to that a victim wrapped in plastic like a larva and it paints a pretty clear picture. This killer is trying to set his victim free. Death is the gateway to their new existence.”

 

Frederick was staring at the cellophane-wrapped victim with a look of befuddlement. Clearly, the whole set-up had escaped his notice. Freddie, on the other hand, was looking at Will with sudden, sharp interest. “That does rather sound like a Ripper kill to me. He's all about symbolism.”

 

“It's not the Ripper.”

 

“I'd like to know what makes you so sure.”

 

“He doesn't set his victims free. He kills to punish, to make a point.” _Because he likes it_. “He kills because they deserve it. This isn't that.” Will glanced at the cellophane-wrapped body on the floor. “This man was probably suffering from some kind of terminal disease.”

 

Frederick rubbed at his mouth. “He was an out-patient at Johns Hopkins, according to the medical bracelet we found with his clothes. Prostate cancer.”

 

“Whoever killed him, knew that. Look at family, friends.” Turning around to head back out, Will took one last look at the body. “This was an act of mercy.”

 

The Baltimore PD officers gathered at the door made way as he approached. Will ignored them and their looks. Hannibal was leaned against the banister of the stairwell, hands clasped in front of him. It was deathly silent in the hallway, and Will realized his voice might have carried all the way back here. He'd done something he'd never done before – showed off, and maybe Freddie's plan to rattle him had worked after all.

 

“How did it go?” Hannibal asked solicitously.

 

“I need to get out of here,” Will muttered, heading for the stairs.

 

The fresh air outside was a blessing. They walked back to the Bentley, arms brushing.

 

“This isn't quite what I had in mind for our Sunday walk,” Hannibal said. “Mind if we extend it?”

 

Will nodded. He felt out of sorts, displaced. This was the second time he'd laid eyes on an actual murder victim, but it was different from seeing Hannibal's work. He'd felt _sorry_ for the man wrapped in cellophane. Sheldon Isley hadn't elicited any emotion other than the initial slow roll of the stomach at the sight of a naked man in a tree with his stomach cut open and most of his internal organs missing. What Will felt now was pity, both for the victim and the killer, and it was not a good feeling.

 

Hannibal drove them to one of Baltimore's many parks. For twenty minutes or so, Will mindlessly put one foot in front of the other.

 

“What can I do to help?” Hannibal asked.

 

“Don't. Just -”

 

“I'm serious. You look spooked.”

 

Will stopped, gravel crunching under his soles. His breath was fogging, and the park looked joyless and drab under the grey sky. “Stop pretending you actually care.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The FBI calls you a sociopath because they don't know what else to call you. You're something else, but you do have some of the traits.”

 

Hannibal appeared amused. “You doubt my depth of emotion. I have feelings.”

 

“Everyone has feelings. I'm doubting your capability to give a damn about mine.”

 

Hannibal didn't argue, didn't even look particularly put off, and Will was for the moment glad for it. He was still extricating himself from the unwelcome bog the sight of the cellophane-wrapped murder victim had evoked, as well as trying not to let his thoughts guide him down dark pathways, concerning Freddie Lounds. Will knew Freddie wasn't going to leave him alone until the Ripper was caught and Will's innocence proven – and even then she'd probably let fly a comment or two, would keep needling him.

 

Will didn't want the real Ripper to be caught. Not until he was done with him, and he didn't _want_ to be done with Hannibal.

 

Unhappily, Will studied the other man. “You bring out the worst in me,” he said baldly. “I wish we'd never met.”

 

Hannibal just smiled.

 

-

 

They returned to Hannibal's house. Will had a message from Beverly – _how's it going?_ \- to which he didn't know what to reply without lying, so he let it sit unanswered. Restlessly, he wandered about. Books didn't hold his interest. He felt discontent; Freddie Lounds' unexpected visit and the implications of it hung over him like a black cloud. The thought of going to work on Monday as though nothing had happened seemed incongruous.

 

But he would go to work on Monday, and he would pretend nothing had changed. He would come back here, too.

 

He went to find Hannibal. The kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it. Hannibal was stuffing _ravioli_ , treating each individual dough pocket with loving care. There was a second, unoccupied work space at the counter, with all the trappings needed to emulate what the master was doing. Will washed his hands at the sink and took the space obviously meant for him. He watched and then tried it. His first little dough pocket came out lumpy and uneven. He peeled it apart again and started over.

 

Between them, they filled a large pot. Hannibal added water, a pinch of salt, a tablespoon of oil, and set it on the stove on high heat.

 

Will picked bits of dough and meat from his fingers, thoughts drifting. In a week, in a month, the outrage he felt now over the discovery of Hannibal's true identity would fade, replaced by tolerance first and acceptance later, if he continued down this vein. He thought back to all the articles he'd written about the Chesapeake Ripper, the columns he'd dedicated to that elusive serial killer, the words he'd chosen: _cruel,_ _meticulous, vicious, hunter_ ; he wondered if it hadn't been sympathy or admiration he'd been trying to express, rather than disgust – and if that lack of remorse he'd felt over Matthew wasn't something that had been in him all along, now finally shaken loose.

 

_You write about the killers, not about the victims or the victims' families_.

 

Will lifted his head. Hannibal was watching him across the expanse of the kitchen island. He looked quietly hopeful, and Will understood that: how lonely it was, leading a life no one could ever know of, having no one to share with, no one who _knew_. He'd hoped for a similar understanding on Hannibal's part, at the beginning of their acquaintance: _do you really want to know what's kicking around my head?_

 

“Come here,” Will murmured, holding his hand out.

 

-

 

 


	11. 11.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short chapter. SOMEONE *glares to the left* demanded kitchen sex with bottom!Hannibal. Personally I don't give a crap about who's on top, but eh.
> 
> Also, this is Dark!Will. Not MorallyGrey!Will, as seen in the series, toward the end.

**11.**

 

Hannibal took the offered hand and closed the remaining inches between them, close enough for shirts to brush and knees to knock. He kissed Will's brow, slow and so affectionate, and for a while that was enough, this quiet sharing of space – of understanding. Doubts remained aplenty; Will wasn't a lovestruck imbecile blind to the danger breathing him in – not _anymore_ , now that he finally saw what had been right in front of him all along. Hunger, amorality – still _moral_ , curiously, just differently. Not socially normed. Grey.

 

Hannibal wrapped his arms around him then, slowly. Not to spook. Not to send running -

 

Covetous.

 

There was power in that. With whatever emotions he was capable of, Hannibal wanted him. Will pressed his mouth to a silk-clad shoulder. That was important. That was something he could _use_ , if he had to.

 

Behind Hannibal, the lid on the pot began to rattle as the water boiled. With an apologetic squeeze, he stepped away. “This will only take a moment.”

 

Will watched him through narrowed eyes, the quick, sure hands pulling the pot off the stove, ladling out the steaming _ravioli_ and setting them on a plate. It wasn't a conscious decision to step forward and put his hand on Hannibal's back, low, just above the black leather belt. The material Hannibal's shirt was made of was so soft Will barely felt it between his palm and Hannibal's skin, just a hint of cloth over warmth. He stroked up between Hannibal's shoulder blades, down again, pulling the shirt free.

 

“Will,” Hannibal said. He'd gone motionless, ladle still in hand.

 

“Yes?” Hannibal didn't answer, so Will figured it couldn't have been important. “Keep going,” he said. “Mustn't ruin dinner.” Hannibal's response was a sharp intake of breath. Will let his hands explore the expanse of Hannibal's back, rucking the shirt up as he went. He was hard. Just another indication of how messed up he really was, and fuck, he didn't care. Slipping his hands around to Hannibal's front, Will slowly undid the belt and fly.

 

Metal clanked against metal as the last _ravioli_ were fished out of the water. “Will,” Hannibal said again, voice gone lower, softer. “I've never -”

 

Will teased his fingertips under the waistband of Hannibal's underwear. “Been fucked, or had sex in the kitchen?”

 

Hannibal breathed deeply. “Either,” he admitted.

 

Will closed his eyes. _Fuck_. That turned him on more than he cared to admit, a hot, hard clench right under his balls. “I'm your first?”

 

Hannibal twisted at the waist. The arch look on his face was ruined by the faintest hint of colour in his cheeks. “If the conversation is going to turn to cherries now, I swear -”

 

Will rubbed against Hannibal's backside, reigning in laughter. “No cherries. But do you want to? Not fucking, because the condoms are upstairs, but -”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal said immediately.

 

Will dropped to his knees, tugging down Hannibal's pants and underwear. He spread him with his thumbs, exposing the dark, tight centre of him. At the first, exploratory lick, Hannibal dropped the ladle. It clattered to the floor, forgotten. He grabbed the edge of the counter, spreading his legs as far as the jumble of clothes around his thighs allowed, hips tilting. Will was delighted and a little surprised. _Everything_ about Hannibal screamed alpha-type, and Will would've been okay with that – didn't care much about who was on top.

 

Will set out to reward him. He stayed on his knees until his jaw and tongue ached. Hannibal tasted musky, a little sharp. Will could tell he was trying to reign in his responses, but the quiver in his thighs gave him away. The Chesapeake Ripper, ready for a good, hard fuck. Will nearly came at the thought. With a last, lingering suck at the wrinkly muscle, he pulled away and rose, fingertips taking over, stretching and teasing the rim. Hannibal's shirt was translucent with sweat all the way down his back.

 

One-handed, Will wrestled with his fly.

 

“You may,” Hannibal murmured.

 

“I may, what?”

 

“Fuck me.”

 

Will looked down. Two fingers, thumb teasing. God, he wanted to, but, “No condoms,” he reminded, stroking himself faster. “And no lube.”

 

Hannibal arched his back, deliberately taking Will's fingers deeper. “I don't care.”

 

Will hesitated.

 

“I'm clean,” Hannibal continued. “I have to be. Regulations. I want to feel you bare. Will.” He looked back over his shoulder. “My patience has limits.”

 

Just for that, Will gave him a third finger, slow and deep. Hannibal whined – _whined_ – and dropped his head, panting. Will's resistance was waning, his common sense along with it. He wanted this. Hannibal wanted this. He spat in his palm, wetting his dick. It wouldn't be enough, and he didn't want this to be painful for either of them. As if reading his mind, Hannibal made a lunging grab for the bottle of oil on the island. Will managed to get it open and made a mess, coating his fingers, the floor, their clothes.

 

He tugged Hannibal back from the kitchen island, toward his dick. The sight and feel of Hannibal's body opening around him made the breath stutter in his chest. He moved slowly at first, rediscovering how good that felt. Hannibal was quiet, head bowed. Will reached around, found him hot and only semi-hard. He played with angles until Hannibal's dick jumped in his hand. _There we go_. Hannibal uttered a guttural sound, his hand joining Will's, and then it was finally all right to let go. Fucking was simple and straightforward and a blessed relief from the knot of thoughts his mind had become. Will gave himself over to it.

 

He came loudly, with a strangled shout. Hannibal shoved his hand away and took over, snarling through his own release. Draped over Hannibal's heaving back, Will gasped open-mouthed through the clench of muscles around his dick, relishing every second of it.

 

Afterwards, they were both useless. The downside to spontaneous kitchen sex while clothed were those awkward minutes where pants were pulled back up and knees were made of rubber. Will's dick felt rubbed raw. Hannibal looked downright debauched, belt hanging open, shirt tails untucked. There was a streak of come down the front of the kitchen island, oil on the floor. Hannibal eyed both with just a hint of disapproval, wet rag in hand. It took off some of the afterglow.

 

“Okay?” Will asked, had to ask.

 

After what looked like a monumental inner struggle, Hannibal tossed the rag into the sink. “You bring out the worst in me as well,” he said. “This will keep for later. Bed?”

 

-

 

Will dozed for two hours. Hannibal didn't stir when he woke. Will took a shower and went downstairs. He put the _ravioli_ in the fridge and cleaned up as best as he could. Beverly had left him another message. _Still alive?_

 

 _Yes_ , Will sent back. _BUSY. HINT HINT._

 

Thirty seconds later, Beverly sent him a lewdly winking smiley.

 

He sat on the couch.

 

Hannibal would serve the _ravioli_ for a very late lunch or a very early dinner. Tomorrow, Will would go to work. They'd continue, what? Dating? They'd gone past that stage. There was absolutely no doubt in Will's mind that if he tried to leave now, really leave, Hannibal would kill him. Knowing that should have upset him, but it didn't. Accepting that there were parts of him that wanted to be with Hannibal was easier than mentally twisting himself into a knot over an inevitability. Everyone had a dark side, a grey side, and Will had discovered his; he was curious, excited, thrilled, in terror. A little bit in love, still, even if Hannibal didn't reciprocate.

 

\- at least not conventionally. There were many forms of hunger.

 

He also wanted to keep working with the FBI. Just not with Freddie Lounds.

 

He typed out a quick message to Doctor Bloom: _Call off Agent Lounds. I am not an employee of the FBI, and I am not at your peoples' beck and call._ _I was looking forward to spending a quiet weekend with my –_ Will dithered, then chose the neutral – _partner, not to be carted off to a crime scene that_ obviously _has nothing to do with the Ripper._

 

A cheap shot, but it was a start. Will made a mental note to do some research on Freddie Lounds once he was back home. Maybe he'd find some leverage.

 

Hannibal appeared about an hour later, freshly showered and dressed. He looked in on where Will was reclined on the couch, nose buried in a book, and disappeared again. Will heard him knock about in the kitchen. When he returned, he brought coffee and a plate full of little pastries. When he sat in the armchair adjacent to the couch, Will caught his brief expression of discomfort and the careful shift in movement. He raised the book a few inches.

 

“I can _hear_ you smiling,” Hannibal said pointedly.

 

Will dropped the book to the couch and gave up pretending he wasn't amused. “Sorry.”

 

“You're not.”

 

“Nope. Not really. Did you like it?”

 

Hannibal doctored his coffee and bit a pastry in half. “I'm always open to new experiences.” He shifted again. “Even if they come with lingering...effects.”

 

Will snorted, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt. “You can just say it as it is. You're sore. No judgement here. I know exactly what that feels like.”

 

Hannibal veiled himself in prim silence.

 

Will figured it was time to change the subject. He waggled his phone. “I've been thinking about what to do about that FBI agent. I think I can get her to back off.”

 

“You could cease your affiliation with the FBI entirely.”

 

“That wouldn't stop her. And I don't want to. I just want them to play by my rules.” Hannibal arched a brow. Will amended, “My rules as far as my 'affiliation' with them is concerned.”

 

Hannibal hummed. “I would certainly appreciate it if there were no more surprise visits.”

 

“It's not just that. Lounds is convinced I'm the Ripper. She's not going to change her mind unless I present her with the Ripper.”

 

“Do you want to give them the Ripper?”

 

“We wouldn't be having this conversation if that was the case. The Ripper will never be caught.”

 

“You did catch me.”

 

“Only because you let me.” Will licked his lips. “I discovered a truth about myself. I'm just as bad as the killers I've been hunting.”

 

Hannibal regarded him earnestly. “I wouldn't say bad. Restricted by societal constructs of morality is the term I'd choose. Strip away the fetters of convention and you'll discover the world is a beautiful, savage place. You've already seen glimpses of it through the eyes of the killers you've _chosen_ to hunt.”

 

Will envisioned himself, with his loyal dogs at his feet, a pack of wolves, living out there in such a place. The thrill of the hunt and the blood song of victory. No one to judge, to pry, to condemn, not if they wanted to live, and _he_ would get to choose who lived.

 

“We've always been killers, Will,” Hannibal said, matter-of-fact. “We've just painted a thin veneer of civilisation over that truth.”

 

“A veneer you've discarded. Scratched off yourself. Discovered the beast under it?”

 

“I know myself,” Hannibal said. “Do you?”

 

Will thought he had. Now he wasn't so sure any longer.

 

-

 

Hannibal fabricated some complicated kind of sauce for the _ravioli_. They ate in the living room, less formal than the dining room. “I'd like to extend an invitation,” Hannibal said. “We are both busy men, but I'd like to see you more often than only the weekends. Whenever you feel like it, _Mischa's_ will have a table reserved only for you from now on.”

 

Will couldn't resist. “Chewed-on sweaters and all?”

 

“Chewed-on sweaters and all,” Hannibal confirmed, looking ever so slightly pained.

 

Will heard the words between the lines. “You want to make us official.”

 

“Do you object?”

 

Will thought about it. “No,” he said. “No. I like it.”

 

-

 

 


	12. 12.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has left comments/kudos/bookmarks!

**12.**

 

Monday. Will went to work.

 

The newsroom was empty except for Abel Gideon, who sat at his desk typing furiously, ignoring Will and content to be ignored in return. Everyone was out doing something – Zeller and Price at an art exhibition, Beverly at a local high school sports event. What the rest of his colleagues were doing, Will didn't care.

 

Sipping coffee, he stared out the windows. Being here was a chore. He'd had a craptastic night after going back home Sunday evening and picking the dogs up at Mrs. Dutch's. His little furry family had been ecstatic to see him and mobbed him with affection. He'd taken them for a late walk, throwing sticks for them to fetch, enjoying the crisp wind and the wide open spaces.

 

Then he felt queasy over the smell of the dog food he set out just before he went to bed. He tossed and turned, waking in the twilight hours after a meagre three hours, sweat–soaked and shivering, his head splitting apart. The Aspirin he'd been popping like candy was only just taking the edge off.

 

Will focused on the website open on his screen. Noble Hills Care Centre. He picked up the phone and dialled. A friendly lady informed him that they did have open hours for patients, and that the likeliest candidate to take a look at Will's very specific symptoms was Doctor Tobias Budge, a neuroscientist. Will made an appointment for later in the week.

 

When he was done with the call, he went back to doing nothing. No new murders, nothing that piqued his interest. On Wednesday, he was scheduled to attend a Baltimore PD conference on public safety and crime prevention. He hadn't heard back from Doctor Bloom. All quiet on the home front, except for the elephant in the room. Will glanced over his notes on the Chesapeake Ripper, both the handwritten ones and the ones he kept in his head.

 

He'd have to rewrite them. Sadistic serial killer. Sociopath. Hannibal was the square peg in the round hole. He spoke of kinship and Will knew he meant it. He had no type of preferred victim other than _rude_ , it seemed. _Convenient_ , maybe, though that was something Will wasn't sure about. Childhood trauma was a factor, but again, Will wasn't sure how much that had influenced the emerging adult. The complete absence of sexual violence in his crimes was another factor to consider. In fact –

 

“Graham!”

 

Startled, Will looked up. Abel Gideon stood next to his desk. “What?”

 

“I called your name twice and you didn't answer. I'm getting coffee. Want a refill?”

 

Gideon was a transplant who'd worked for the _New York Times_ before relocating to Baltimore to write for the _Sun_ , which some evil tongues whispered had been a serious cut in pay and prestige. He was a fantastic reporter. His articles on Baltimore's food industry and restaurant scene were a delight to read, whether he praised or ripped someone to pieces, and his relentless, solid investigative work had uncovered quite a few scandals.

 

In the newsroom, he was a recluse much like Will. It was known he had trouble with an estranged wife, and his overall demeanour didn't invite friendly advances. It wasn't like him to be this nice to anyone unless he wanted something.

 

Curious, Will held out his cup. “Sure.”

 

When Gideon returned, he snagged a chair and sat. “You're looking a little ill.” He glanced over the scattered notes on Will's desk, catching sight of a photo of a severed arm, and paled. “Well, I guess that explains why.”

 

Will slipped the photo into a folder. “Sorry.”

 

Gideon shrugged, looking down into his cup. “It's fine. We all see horrible things sometimes. Though I guess a dirty kitchen isn't on par with murder.”

 

Will fiddled with a pen. “You want to discuss work–related psychological trauma?”

 

“Not really. I hear you're familiar with a restaurant I'm planning on visiting. Smallish place, Pratt Street.”

 

He could only be talking about _Mischa's_. “Where did you hear that?”

 

Gideon rolled his eyes. “The office grapevine works just fine. I know you and the owner are a _thing_.”

 

“How the _hell_ –”

 

“Office grapevine,” Gideon repeated patiently. “Don't look so shocked. Were you honestly thinking you could keep that a secret _here_?”

 

Only Beverly, Zeller and Price knew about Will's relationship with Hannibal. Beverly wasn't one to go around and gossip. Zeller or Price might have let something slip unintentionally. Annoyed, Will tossed the pen onto the desk. Hannibal had talked about making them 'official', whatever that entailed; Will hadn't expected to learn, from Gideon of all people, that something so personal had already made the rounds at the _Sun_.

 

Gideon's expression wavered between pity and amusement. “I know what that feels like. Sometimes I think the rumours about my marital problems arrived here before I did. Anyway, I'm not here to talk about who you're having sex with, either.”

 

Will took a calming breath. “What do you want?”

 

“Pointers. I didn't find much on _Mischa's_. Anything I should know before I go in?”

 

That was easy. “Bring a full wallet and your Sunday best.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

Will got the feeling Gideon was fishing for something specific. “It's a restaurant, I'm sure you've already visited hundreds. It's expensive and upper crust. And for the record, I've been there _once_.” To eat, anyway. He began to worry that he'd almost died there, too, had reached the 'office grapevine' by now. Nobody but a select few were supposed to know about that. “You'll be fine.” Cruelly, he added, “Just don't be rude.”

 

The conversation concluded, Gideon returned to his desk, leaving Will to stew in his thoughts.

 

–

 

Zeller and Price returned with Beverly in tow. Immediately, Beverly headed for Will's desk. The big grin on her face faded with every step. “You okay?”

 

Gideon had gone out for lunch half an hour ago. A few people were sitting around, working or chatting. Will rose. “I need to talk to you guys. Privately.”

 

They headed to the roof. Zeller hunched into his coat, his breath fogging. “You know, we have spare offices. What's it with you and this fucking roof?”

 

Price cackled. “Afraid of a little fresh air, eh?”

 

Beverly touched Will's arm. “What's wrong?”

 

Will told them about his conversation with Gideon. At the end, Beverly looked thoughtful. Price looked perplex.

 

Zeller resorted to standoffish anger. “Are you calling me a gossip?”

 

“Brian, calm down,” Price said. He glanced at Will. “Wherever Gideon heard that, it wasn't from us.”

 

“I'm not saying you did it on purpose. Maybe something slipped out?”

 

“Your sex life isn't that interesting for us to talk about it,” Zeller sniped.

 

Will hated these kinds of confrontations. He wanted to be anywhere else but here. “Did you hear anyone else talk about it?”

 

Beverly shook her head. “People don't really talk about you at all unless it's something to do with murder. Could Gideon have seen you two somewhere?”

 

“No.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Absolutely. Unless he peaked through some windows.” Will sighed. “I'm just trying to figure out how Gideon knows.”

 

Price shrugged. “Let's be logical about this, shall we? Aside from us, who else does know?”

 

There was only one more person who knew for certain. “Freddie Lounds.”

 

“Who is that?” Beverly asked.

 

“An FBI agent.”

 

“Red hair?” Zeller asked. He held out a hand. “About this tall? Dressed to kill?”

 

Will felt himself going cold inside. “Yes.”

 

“She was here on Saturday.”

 

“Ooh,” Price snapped his fingers, “I remember her. I saw her talking to Crawford. He didn't look too happy about it.”

 

“Thing is,” Zeller said, “she was in the newsroom for a while before Crawford arrived, so she _might_ have been talking to Gideon? I don't know, I don't really pay attention to what that guy does. He was at his desk, though, grumpy as always.”

 

Now Will was sure Freddie Lounds had been observing him.

 

“I don't get it,” Beverly said. “Why would an FBI agent go around talking about your relationship? It's none of her business.”

 

It was, as long as Freddie thought Will was the Chesapeake Ripper. Interviewing a suspect's friends, family and co–workers was standard procedure. Freddie had come here on Saturday, before she turned up at Hannibal's house on Sunday, before Will sent his message to Doctor Bloom. If she'd aimed to do damage, it was already done.

 

Zeller, Price and Beverly were giving him expectant looks, waiting for an explanation. Will was trapped. His involvement with the FBI was supposed to be something only Crawford knew about, but Will couldn't keep it to himself any longer without making a liar of himself later. Who knew what else Freddie had told Gideon? Who knew who else she'd talked to _other_ than Gideon?

 

Will sighed, crossed his arms. “I'm working for – with the FBI.”

 

Price and Zeller looked surprised. Beverly just narrowed her eyes. “To catch the Ripper.”

 

“Yes.” Will tried to gauge Beverly's reaction. If she was hurt he'd kept that from her, she hid it. “There's more to it, though. Remember when the FBI confiscated my notes on the Ripper case? That wasn't just to shut me down, or to put me in my place. The underlying assumption was that only someone who _is_ the Ripper could know so much about him.”

 

Zeller's eyebrows gravitated upwards. “They think _you're_ the Ripper?”

 

“Freddie Lounds does. Problem is, until the Ripper is actually caught, there's not much I can do to convince her otherwise.”

 

“How about a nice lawsuit for harassment?” Price suggested.

 

“She's not harassing me. My relationship with Hannibal is a fact, not something she's making up. I know a lot about the Ripper, that's also a fact, and they have my notes to prove it. She's not actively infringing on my rights in any way. She's a pain in the ass, that's all.”

 

“I'd sue for libel,” Beverly said. “If she's going around saying you're the Ripper, she could seriously damage your reputation.”

 

“She's clever. She wouldn't do something so obvious.” Will worried at his lip. “I gotta talk to Crawford. Just do me a favour and keep this to yourselves. No one is supposed to know I'm working with the feds.”

 

Zeller and Price returned inside. Will and Beverly stood in the biting cold wind.

 

“Sorry,” Will tried.

 

“I'm not angry.”

 

“Disappointed?”

 

“No. Well, a little.” Beverly shoved her hands into her pockets. “Sharing helps, you know? Especially with stuff like this. It helps prepare. I don't know what's wrong, but lately it's like everything that goes on with you turns into these bombs that drop when I least expect it.”

 

He hadn't even dropped the biggest bomb yet. Will could barely bring himself to look Beverly in the eyes. Shame over the secret he was keeping washed over him, hot and heavy, but also selfishness to keep it a secret, just as scathing.

 

“C'mon,” Beverly said. “Let's go inside before we freeze our butts off.”

 

–

 

Crawford was at a meeting. Will waited in his office until he returned. When he saw Will standing at the window, he sighed, low and heavy. He shut the door and walked to the file cabinet in the corner where he kept an emergency stash, pouring them both a finger of whiskey.

 

Crawford took a healthy swig before he started. “The meeting I was at wasn't about you, but the next one might be, if the wrong words reach the right ears. I need you to deal with whatever the hell is going on with the FBI.” He took another sip. “And I need you to do it quickly, before this gets out of hand.”

 

“I'm trying. Tell me what Lounds wanted.”

 

“Nothing. Nothing _official_. 'Gathering impressions', she called it.” Crawford eyed him. “They still think you're the Ripper.”

 

“Lounds does. Maybe some others, too, but she's the most vocal about it.”

 

“Catch the Ripper, Will. And for god's sake, get the hell out of that deal you have with the FBI. Nothing good ever comes of mixing with the feds.” Crawford turned to stare out the window. “Whatever bait they dangled in front of you isn't worth the damage this is going to do to you if it goes south.”

 

Will focused on a distant point of the horizon.

 

“This is serious,” Crawford pressed. “I can deal with gossip, but if Lounds starts 'gathering impressions' from, say, Donald, there's shit all I can do. And the bosses still aren't very happy with that silence treaty over Matthew Brown. Don't give them more ammunition.”

 

Will went back to his desk. Aimlessly, he shuffled notes around. Too late for damage control. The next logical step was damage containment. The thoughts that came and went seemed like they belonged to another person entirely, colder and harder, dangerous. Hannibal's. Will didn't want to go down that path. It lead to places he didn't dare imagine.

 

In the late afternoon, Doctor Bloom sent him a message. She was waiting in the _Sun's_ parking lot.

 

“I didn't want to make it worse by coming up,” she told him. “Some of your colleagues may remember me.”

 

They sat in her car. It smelled of vanilla air freshener. Will sunk low in the seat. “I'm not sure that matters now.”

 

Doctor Bloom looked at him with sympathy. “I am sorry.”

 

“There's gotta be something you can do. She's a federal agent. She has to follow some kind of protocol.”

 

Doctor Bloom looked away. “Freddie is officially investigating the Chesapeake Ripper case.”

 

Will rolled that around for a bit. He wasn't really surprised. “So what you're really saying is, I'm still officially a suspect.”

 

“You're a person of interest. There's a difference.”

 

“Not from where I'm looking at it.” This just kept getting worse and worse. “How's that meshing with inviting me to consult on cases? Or was that just so you guys could keep an eye on me?”

 

“I don't believe you're the Ripper, Will.”

 

That wasn't an answer to his question. Will had wondered before what kind of position Doctor Bloom held at the BAU. She seemed to have a lot of influence, but it was probably more on a personal than a professional basis. She was a guest lecturer, not an FBI agent. She consulted on cases, offered advice, profiled, but she wasn't in the hierarchy, which gave her some leeway but also restricted her. If Freddie really got the ball rolling, there was very little, truthfully, that Doctor Bloom could do to stop it.

 

It didn't matter what she believed. It all came down to one salient point: the capture of the Chesapeake Ripper. Closing the investigation. Giving the FBI what they wanted, what he needed to get them off is back. He'd been fooling himself, thinking he could make them play by any rules other than their own; he was wholly, helplessly out of his depth, sinking in waters full of sharks, and only now he felt the water lapping gently at his throat.

 

Will reached for serenity, his quiet, safe stream. A beautiful, savage world, Hannibal called it. Eat, or be eaten.

 

–

 

 _Mischa's_ was packed. Will sidestepped around the waitress coming to greet him and headed for the bar, slowing down halfway there. The tables had been rearranged ever so slightly to create space. In the corner where he'd almost died stood an additional table, smaller, with two chairs and dark red table cloth instead of white, a single place setting. A black metal holder displaying a distinct white card marked the table as PRIVATE.

 

Bedelia, stunning in black and silver behind the bar, discreetly tilted her head. Will took the seat meant for him – only for him. The wall was at his back. He could see every other table from here, and be seen in return. His private spot in Hannibal's world. The warm glow from that carried him through the awkwardness of far too many pairs of eyes watching him, the brief lull in conversation.

 

Bedelia arrived with the menu. “You must think the worst of me, Mister Graham. I do hope we can start over.”

 

Will hadn't forgotten the insult, but more important things had occupied him in the meantime. Now he devoted a moment entirely to Bedelia, taking her in. Her aversion ran deeper than his choice in wardrobe, he was sure of it. Tonight, she had no reason to criticise him. He'd left work early, gone home and cleared his head, spending two hours in the woods with a bunch of very happy dogs. The decision to drive back to Baltimore hadn't been fuelled just by this afternoon's unpleasantness and subsequent need for distraction; he wanted to see Hannibal, simple as that.

 

He'd showered and gone through his closet. Black slacks, a black shirt and his only good pair of shoes concluded how far as Will was willing to step out of his comfort zone.

 

“Call me Will,” he told Bedelia. “We'll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.”

 

Her cordial smile didn't waver. “I'll let Hannibal know you're here.”

 

The menu featured an inlay of heavy, cream-coloured paper listing the specialities. Will didn't look at the prices too closely, knowing they were exorbitant.

 

In an eerie repetition of his first visit to _Mischa's_ , the waitress visited him twice, first to bring the wine he ordered, then to serve him an appetizer he _hadn't_ ordered. Heart again, judging by taste and texture, six delicate morsels dripping juice. Will ate slowly, savouring each mouthful. He was finishing the last bite when Hannibal appeared behind the bar, conversing briefly with Bedelia. Glass of wine in hand, Hannibal made his way over, smiling benignly at the guests at the nearby tables.

 

He took the free chair at Will's side. “Good evening.” Then he took Will's hand and, before Will could think to intervene, kissed a knuckle.

 

“You weren't kidding about making it official,” Will said weakly, torn between yanking his hand back and checking to see who was watching them. It felt like the entire restaurant was staring. He hated and liked it at the same time.

 

Hannibal kept both their hands on the table, in plain sight. His gaze lingered at Will's open collar. “Sometimes the blunt approach is the best. I don't want anyone to harbour doubts.”

 

“Isn't this a bit risky? In my experience, conservatism runs deeply in the upper class.” Will glanced at the nearby tables. Most faces turned their way showed curiosity, not animosity. “I feel like a zoo animal.”

 

“The lion doesn't care it if is being stared at. It knows the strength of its jaws and the sharpness of its claws.”

 

“I prefer not to be at the centre of attention.”

 

“You're at the centre of mine. How does that make you feel?”

 

Will exhaled slowly. “I like it more than I should.”

 

Hannibal appeared pleased. He nodded at the menu. “Have you decided yet?”

 

“No. Recommendations?”

 

A subtle gesture brought the waitress to Will's table. “The _Fugu_ , please. Tell Franklyn it's for me and for a special guest.”

 

Will frowned. “Isn't that fish poisonous?”

 

“Very. Not many restaurants in the United States are licensed to serve it. In Japan, chefs must undergo a special training before they are allowed to even prepare it.”

 

“You have that training?”

 

Hannibal squeezed his hand. “Have no worries. I prepared it myself, and we will eat it together.”

 

“And die together if...” Will trailed off. Hannibal took even more pride in his cooking than he did in his elaborately set up murders. The fish would be safe to eat. Hannibal liked the idea of serving something that _could_ kill even if it was dead already. “Fine.” The waitress, who had been listening to the conversation with ever more widening eyes, left. “Who's Franklyn?”

 

“He cooks when I am otherwise occupied. I will introduce you, if you like.”

 

“Am I keeping you from work?”

 

“Not at all. The specialities require extensive preparation, which I take care of before we open. Franklyn prepares the more traditional meals, under my supervision.” Hannibal looked over the tables. “He should have everything in hand at the moment.”

 

“I'd like to meet him.”

 

“He's no Matthew, I guarantee you.”

 

Will would judge that himself. Serial killers were no pack hunters, but through sheer dumb luck or divine intervention, Matthew had found his way to Hannibal's side.

 

Hannibal circled his thumb over Will's knuckle. “Will you be coming home with me tonight?”

 

Will shook his head. “Can't. My dogs.”

 

“So you're here to eat.”

 

“I needed,” _a distraction_ wasn't very flattering. Hannibal was more than just that. “I wanted to see you. Crap day.”

 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

 

Yes and no. Will's problem with the FBI directly concerned Hannibal, but he wasn't sure he wanted to involve the other man. Hannibal's approach to problem-solving likely involved drastic measures that would increase the FBI's focus on Will, not lessen it. As much as a hateful part of Will liked the idea of Freddie Lounds disappearing forever, he knew that wouldn't stop the ongoing Chesapeake Ripper investigation.

 

“Tell me if you change your mind,” Hannibal said, taking Will's silence for refusal. He didn't look put off. They sat in a comfortable pocket of silence for a while. “Ah, here's Franklyn with the _Fugu_.”

 

The man approaching their table was rotund, bearded, and friendly-looking. He introduced himself as Franklyn Froideveaux and gushed about what an honour it was to meet Will, as if Will was some kind of celebrity. By the time he disappeared back into the kitchen, Will had sunk a few inches lower in the chair and was feeling claustrophobic.

 

Hannibal watched him, amused. “I should have warned you. Franklyn can be a bit...much.”

 

“That's putting it nicely.”

 

“His quality in the kitchen makes up for it. Do you think he's a killer?”

 

Franklyn was eager in the same way Matthew had been, but _differently_. “No.”

 

“What makes you so sure? You talked for all of two minutes.”

 

“Intuition? I don't know what to call it. Sometimes I can just tell.”

 

“You couldn't with me. Or Matthew.”

 

“Not right away. I told you, I don't profile everyone I meet, and I'm not a mind reader, either. Quite frankly, most people just aren't that interesting. And I need evidence.” Will stared at the thinly sliced fish on the plates Franklyn had brought to the table. They were arranged in a dizzying spiral pattern. “I knew Matthew was a killer when I saw him the second time. He had defensive wounds on his face, just after someone left a pair of eyeballs at my house, _and_ he somehow managed to 'meet' me, on a random day, in the middle of Baltimore, at a place I'd never set foot in before. It all fit.”

 

“Yet you still followed him to that bar,” Hannibal mused. “And you stayed with me, after you saw the evidence.”

 

“What do you want to hear? That I'm attracted to serial killers? Or more precisely, violence? Too curious for my own good? We both know that already.”

 

Hannibal nodded. “I just want you to be honest with yourself.”

 

“I am. I'm here.” Will was just about done with the conversation. “Can we please eat now?”

 

“Of course. My apologies.”

 

Will caught Bedelia watching them from behind the bar. The intensity of their conversation hadn't escaped the other guests, either. Consciously, Will relaxed. It was only natural that Hannibal would prod and poke at this. As he had said, it was new for him, too, and Will believed him. Will even liked it, just a little bit, just enough to compensate for that rubbed-raw feeling that had settled in him toward the end. There was satisfaction in being able to talk so freely.

 

 _Sharing helps_.

 

That probably wasn't what Beverly had meant.

 

Will focused on his meal. “This fish is delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

 

Hannibal smiled. “Thank you.”

 

After the _Fugu_ followed a sweet créme topped with currants. At a gesture from Bedelia, Hannibal disappeared into the kitchen with the promise to return soon. Will finished dessert and his wine. He was no closer to a solution for his FBI problem, but he was in better spirits. He signalled for the bill, wishing for once he lived closer to Baltimore. Spending more than a few hours like this would always require pre-planning and hour-long drives, longer if the weather or the traffic were bad.

 

Hannibal walked him out into the cold night. In the doorway, he pulled Will close, one hand possessively splayed over Will's behind. “Do you like your personal table?”

 

Will chuckled. “Yes.”

 

“Good. I expect to find you sitting at it at least once more this week. And for the weekend -”

 

“I'll call my neighbour. She'll look after the dogs.”

 

“Actually, I was going to offer to come to you.”

 

Will raised his brows. “You've seen my house. And my kitchen. And my dogs.”

 

“Is that a no?”

 

“It's a fair warning. I own three pots and a pan. You'll be covered in dog hair by Monday.”

 

“I consider myself warned.” Hannibal nipped at Will's chin and pecked him on the lips.

 

Will turned it into a real kiss that left him wanting for more. He pulled away before it turned into a _need_. He already liked the idea of Hannibal going back into _Mischa's_ with mussed hair and swollen lips, maybe a little hard, far too much, more than was appropriate. Fuck hand-holding, let them see _that_.

 

Hannibal patted his ass. “Drive safely.”

 

-

 

It wasn't until Will got home and out of his clothes, getting ready for bed, that he discovered the folded bills in the back pocket of his slacks. It was the exact amount he'd paid for the meal. Hannibal must have slipped the money into his pocket while they kissed.

 

-

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the idea of Franklyn, of all people, working as a sub-chef at Mischa's seemed a little absurd at first, but it grew on me. Let's be realistic ( as much as can be, given the setting ): Hannibal wouldn't get out of that kitchen on a work night _at all_ without someone helping to prepare all those gourmet meals. I imagine Mischa's as a smallish restaurant, with space for maybe...50 people. 
> 
> And yes, I'm pulling that number out of my ass. I know shit all about restaurant sizes. 
> 
> We already know Hannibal employs aides when he cooks for one of his dinner parties. And I really like Franklyn. So, yeah.


	13. 13.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So according to Libre, this chapter is 6096 words long. Roughly 1755 of those words are porn. An anal plug makes an appearance.There isn't really much plot otherwise, beyond a few - probably oddly placed - conversations. You know how ficcers sometimes have these plotted outlines for their stories, complete with what goes where, and then the chapter kind of gallops away from them with an echoing trail of mocking laughter?
> 
> Yeah. That's what happened here.
> 
>  
> 
> _And I'm not sorry at all._
> 
>  
> 
> On the other hand, I now face a tagging problem. Are anal plugs/sex toys in general triggering or something that NEEDS to be in the tags? I'm seriously asking here. I try not to use too many Tumblr-style tags in my headers and to be as precise and concise as possible with my tagging overall, which also means that I generally only use tags I find are important to a story. Adding 'sex toys' to the list seems superfluous. I don't want to disappoint people looking for stories with that element specifically by leading them to one chapter out of twenty. 
> 
> So, uhm. Opinions?

**13.**

 

Doctor Tobias Budge was tall and refined and spoke with a pleasant, warm baritone. “Your symptoms could be an indicator of an onset of chronic migraines, but we'll run some tests to make sure.”

 

Will pissed in a cup and had his blood drawn. He answered invasive questions about his lifestyle and eating habits, and held still for a physiological examination. On the hard bier of the MRI scanner, claustrophobia crept up on him; he gripped the bottom hem of the flimsy hospital gown and counted the seconds as they turned into minutes, teeth grit. When he looked down the length of his body, he could see the top of Doctor Budge's head behind the protective glass window separating the scanner room from the corresponding computer terminals. He tried to judge the doctor's mood by the wrinkles on his brow.

 

Twenty minutes later, back in his clothes, he sat in a stylish office on the fifth floor of the Noble Hills Care Centre. “Encephalitis?”

 

“In its beginning stages.” Doctor Budge turned the screen of his computer. “This shows the hemispheres of your brain. That's the inflammation.”

 

Will stared at the bright orange blob in the mass of gray that was his brain, saw _only_ that blob, the bottom of his stomach slowly dropping out.

 

Doctor Budge quickly turned the screen back around. “There is no need to be overly concerned. Encephalitis is treatable and we caught it early. You'll have to follow a strict regiment of anti–inflammatory medication and antibiotics. It sounds graphic, I know, but I estimate you'll be back on your feet in no time.”

 

Will swallowed down bile. Right. No need to worry. Doctors _always_ said that. It wasn't Budge's brain slowly being deep–fried. “How did I even get this?”

 

“There are a number of causes. We'll have to wait for the result of your blood test to be certain, but encephalitis may develop during or after an infection with other viral illnesses, most commonly influenza, herpes, measles, mumps, et cetera.” Doctor Budge considered Will, brows creased. “You told me you have a pack of dogs.”

 

“Seven of them, yes.”

 

“Rabies is also a possible source. You're keeping up with their shots?”

 

Will knew what rabies looked like. It was 100% fatal and a horrible way for any animal to die. He also knew humans could contract it from infected animals. He carefully kept new strays separated from the rest of the pack until they'd been to the veterinary clinic in Wolf Trap, and he handled them with caution, watching them closely. “Yes.”

 

“Good. As I said, there are various causes.” Doctor Budge glanced over his notes. “You also told me you take a lot of Aspirin.”

 

“I get headaches. I don't always...sleep well.”

 

“Insomnia? Apnea?”

 

“No, more like...” Will sighed. “Nightmares. Bad ones. I'm a reporter, what I see isn't always pleasant.”

 

Doctor Budge nodded slowly. “What you see follows you home. Stress?”

 

“I guess. Yeah.”

 

Doctor Budge tilted his head this way and that. “Acetylsalicylic acid, the main compound of Aspirin, is an anti–inflammatory, so taking it might actually have been beneficial in your case. On the other hand, I'm sure you're aware that pain is the body's indicator that something is wrong. Painkillers dull symptoms, they don't cure diseases. You see where I'm going with this?”

 

Will nodded slowly. He'd taken more Aspirin lately than was usual even for him. Without it, he might have noticed sooner that the headaches, the fevers, even that weird experience of waking up on the porch with no idea how he'd gotten there, had been indications of a more serious problem.

 

“Stop your Aspirin intake entirely,” Doctor Budge suggested. “If your headaches persist after we've dealt with the more imminent concern, we'll look into that. There are ways to deal with lack of sleep and work–related stress that don't involve heavy medication usage.”

 

Out on the street in the crisp Baltimore morning, Will stood at the curb and just breathed for a while. His head hurt. He caught himself reaching for the Aspirin bottle in the pocket of his jacket. With a brief, tortured laugh that made several heads turn in his direction, he tossed the bottle into the nearest trash can.

 

Encephalitis. Hannibal had smelled an _inflammation_ of Will's _brain_.

 

Without his brain, he was nothing. If there was one thing that truly, deeply and utterly frightened him, it was the thought of ending up as a vacantly staring vegetable in some institution, wilting each day until the end. He would rather be dead.

 

Clutching the prescription Doctor Budge had written for him, he went to the nearest pharmacy, and from there, to work. He locked himself in a stall in the men's room, sitting on the toilet lid and reading the instructions of each package. That almost made him want not to take any of it. Doctor Budge had warned him, especially about the antibiotics. Will checked his watch. 10 AM. Friday. He took the prescribed dosages, sorted everything back into the nondescript pharmacy bag, and went up to the roof.

 

Hannibal picked up on the second ring. “Hello, Will.”

 

“Encephalitis. You were right.”

 

There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then, “I'm glad you followed my advise.”

 

“Don't be glad yet. Are we still on for this weekend? Because I can't drive with this stuff in me.”

 

“Stuff?” Hannibal asked carefully.

 

“Pills. They set me up with a lot of pills. I've taken some now, I'm at work, I should be fine. But I can't – I shouldn't drive.”

 

“I'll pick you up. When should I be there?”

 

Will rubbed at his mouth. Already, he felt a bit woozy – maybe just his imagination, but he'd taken antibiotics before and knew they hit him hard. He'd be useless the rest of the day. And tomorrow. And the day after that. And then two weeks more. Christ, he needed to calm down. “Maybe I should take a cab. Sorry. I'm a bit worked up at the moment.”

 

“Nonsense,” Hannibal said. “When?”

 

There was nothing on Will's schedule. He could polish the article on Wednesday's Baltimore PD conference, pass a few hours. There'd been no calls from the FBI. “Whenever you're ready. You know how to get here?”

 

“I've been living in Baltimore for well over a decade.”

 

That was a yes. For a serial killer who operated in the Baltimore area, geographical knowledge was always a plus. Just like it was for reporters. Will leaned against the door. “Give me a call when you're here. I'll come down.”

 

–

 

Hannibal came up, instead.

 

One minute, Will was googling something obscure he'd gotten sidetracked into while working on the conference article, the next minute the lull of conversation in the newsroom ebbed significantly enough for him to notice. Hannibal stood in the doorway, looking like he'd just stepped out of a GQ ad. The tiniest grin sat in the corner of his mouth. He slowly let it spread into a real smile as his gaze homed in on Will, and Will could _hear_ the pennies dropping all over the room. Just by walking in, Hannibal cemented the rumours Freddie had been spreading, and he hadn't even said a single word to anyone.

 

Will jammed his notes and cellphone into his backpack, powered down the computer, sure his face was flaming. Getting up, he caught Abel Gideon's expression. Gideon looked curious, intrigued. Thoughtful.

 

Will filed that away. It seemed important.

 

Hannibal laid a warm hand on Will's shoulder. “There you are. Ready to go?”

 

Will could only nod, not sure what would come out of his mouth if he opened it. Hannibal oozed loving concern from every pore. Everyone in the newsroom was staring at them.

 

They took the elevator. Hannibal's Bentley was parked in the _Sun's_ lot, right next to the security guard's little shack. Will buckled himself in. “I said I'd come down.”

 

“I was curious. I've never been in a newsroom.”

 

Will didn't buy that for one second. “You're doing that on purpose.”

 

“What exactly am I doing on purpose?”

 

“These grand entrances.” The table at _Mischa's_ , kissing Will's hand where everyone could see, standing in the doorway of the newsroom and letting everyone know whom he was there to pick up. “It's not just about making it official. You enjoy putting me on display. You enjoy how uncomfortable it makes me – that you can make me feel that way.”

 

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “You're calling me a bully? That's not very nice.”

 

“You're not a bully.” The Bentley filed into traffic. The purr of the powerful engine lulled Will away from the edge of anger. “I make it easy, though, don't I?” he mused. “If I were a little less _me_ , I'd be the perfect victim for bullies all around.”

 

“You're not making it hard,” Hannibal agreed, after a moment. “I enjoy it, to a point.”

 

“What point?”

 

“I have no desire to cause you lasting harm. Physically or mentally.”

 

“ _Lasting_ harm. That's reassuring.”

 

“Duress reveals who we really are.”

 

“Spoken like a true sadist.”

 

Hannibal reached over the gear stick, gripping Will's thigh, high up near his crotch. The touch was just shy of too rough. Will sucked in a quiet breath. “I once killed a doctor for implying I could be lying about my health on an insurance application. I wasn't lying, of course. But he implied it.”

 

Will recalled the case file. The doctor in question had been found in a school bus, literally cut in half. His upper body had been sitting in one seat, the rest of him in another. “I call you a sadist, a serial killer, and am still alive.”

 

Hannibal gently squeezed Will's thigh, dangerously close to where it could really, _really_ hurt if Hannibal wanted. Then he let go. Smoothly, the Bentley switched lanes as they headed onto the interstate for Virginia. The acceleration was powerful enough to press them both back into their seats. Will battled nausea, an inappropriate half–boner, and his thoughts. At first glance, Hannibal had just given him a warning. Rudeness was intolerable. But Will wasn't lying when he called Hannibal a sadist and a serial killer; he wasn't implying anything. It was an iron–clad truth, and the truth was never rude, just...true.

 

He groaned. “I'm doped to the gills. Was that a warning, or are you telling me I'm lucky you like me, or...?”

 

Hannibal was silent so long, it seemed like he wasn't going to answer at all. Then he said, “You're lucky I like you.”

 

Will stared at the landscape for a while, the smooth band of the interstate. “You'll always be a sadist. It's hard–wired into your core, and no amount of sex, cooking together, or doing any other of those normal things people do, will change that. I don't,” he sighed; he had to be _insane_ to say it, “I don't want that to change. Or to change you.”

 

Hannibal's reaction was minuscule, just a slow blink. “Do you think you could?”

 

“I think you think I think I could.” Will shifted in the seat so he could watch the other man's profile. “I'm treating you like I'd treat any other person. I know who and what you are. That's gotta be strange for you.”

 

Again, Hannibal took a long time to give his response. “It is new,” he finally said. “Being with you leads me to discover sides of myself I'd not known.”

 

“Welcome to the club,” Will said dryly. “Nice to know I'm not the only one doing some intense navel–gazing.”

 

They didn't speak until the Bentley rolled to a stop in front of Will's house. Will concentrated on keeping the contents of his stomach down. Wolf Trap was well–developed with a couple of high–profile areas for people with money, but it did have its share of bumpy back roads in need of repair, especially where he lived. He was glad to be out of the car and away from the crème–coloured leather seats.

 

Hannibal pressed him against the side of the Bentley, cupping his face. He kissed Will's brow, the tip of his nose, his lips, and then pulled away, frowning. “You taste...”

 

“It's the medication.” Will sighed. “You'll have to live with it for the next two weeks.”

 

They went inside. The dogs wagged their tails, milling around Hannibal, pressing their noses to his hands, his slacks, any part of him they could reach. Will watched, sinking into the couch, grateful to be on something that wasn't moving. “I'm going to pass out now. Just for a little while. Feel free to explore. If the dogs bother you, let them out into the yard.”

 

Hannibal came to the couch. “They don't bother me. Let me have your house keys? I've some things in the car I'd like to bring in.”

 

Will handed him the keys. He was awake to witness the first large basket Hannibal carried into the kitchen. Then he sank under.

 

–

 

He woke to the sight of Hannibal staring down at Winston. He held his hand out above the dog, one of those little bone–shaped dog treats between thumb and index finger. Tail thumping the floor, Winston watched attentively, and then snatched the treat up mid–air as Hannibal dropped it. The rest of the pack, judging by the muffled barks, were outside. Hannibal crossed the study and opened the door to the backyard, ushering Winston out with a 'go forth and conquer' gesture.

 

Will rolled over, laughing helplessly into a seat cushion. The couch dipped at his hip, and his laughter trailed off into a groan as strong fingers dug into the muscles of his back.

 

“How do you feel?”

 

Like he could lie here forever. Or like he should get up and investigate what else Hannibal had brought in. A delicious scent was drifting through the house, reminding him he'd only had a few cafeteria snacks today. “You cooked already? It's only...” Will lifted his head. The sky outside was a water painting of orange and violet. “How long did I sleep?”

 

“Three hours.”

 

With a disgusted sigh, Will buried his face in the cushion. “It's going to be like this all weekend.”

 

Hannibal shifted, and now there were two hands on Will's back, coaxing tension out of sleep–stiff muscles. “I'm sure we can think of a few things to do that aren't too taxing.”

 

“Like lying here and being absolutely useless? Yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

Hannibal laughed at the muffled complaint. One of his hands slipped over the curve of Will's ass, squeezing briefly. “I can think of a few options for that, too.” He leaned down, lips brushing the top of Will's ear, voice dipping low into a register that found an instant connection to Will's dick. “Quite a few, actually.”

 

Will shivered. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Yes. Dinner first, though. And I'm afraid I must insist on a shower for you. I can smell the medication on your skin.”

 

Will turned his head, glancing up. “Is it really that bad?”

 

Hannibal's expression was apologetic. “I can also smell printer ink, bad coffee, and that cheap aftershave one of your co–workers was wearing.”

 

Having that acute a sense a smell had to suck. “I have a house full of dogs. How're you dealing with that?”

 

“Animals have a natural scent. I find it less intrusive than most manufactured odours.”

 

Will pondered that while he stood in the shower and soaped up. Dead bodies, _death_ , had a scent, too. To Hannibal, the coppery smell of blood and even the stench of viscera were likely the most natural in the world. Will knew what _that_ smelled like, had breathed through it open–mouthed often enough at murder scenes even after the body was gone.

 

After he'd towelled off, he stood in front of the medicine cabinet mirror, staring at himself. He palmed his dick. After a few, hesitant strokes, he was half–hard. Dinner, and then hopefully Hannibal was going to make good on that 'yes'. They could use the master bedroom upstairs, where he almost never slept because it was more convenient to crash on the field bed in the study. The dogs would have to stay downstairs. Hannibal probably wouldn't want a canine audience of seven.

 

Will had to close his eyes; he couldn't watch himself doing this. The mirrors on the ceiling above Hannibal's bed were a different story. _He_ was different when he was with Hannibal, but – also not. He rubbed the head of his dick, images flickering against the insides of his eyelids, too quickly to settle on one. This was why he rarely bothered to do this; it was better when there was someone with him, to distract him from himself.

 

His fingers were just a little bit moist now, the tip of his dick just a little bit more.

 

Before he could convince himself this was a stupid, crazy, gross, he dabbed one finger under his ear. Two to the inside of his wrists. Lastly, a fingertip to his throat where his clavicles met.

 

Then he washed his hands, brushed his teeth and dressed, carefully avoiding the mirror. _Just curious. And insane. But mostly curious_ , he told himself.

 

Hannibal was moving to and fro in Will's ill–equipped kitchen as if he'd never done anything else. He smiled at Will when he entered, and Will saw the _exact_ moment his nostrils flared, whatever he'd been about to say staying behind parted lips. Hannibal took a deep breath and breathed out slowly. “Will,” he said, with as much gravitas as a priest at the sermon, “you are _naughty_.”

 

Nervousness fluttered in Will's belly. “You like it.”

 

Hannibal took another deep breath. “Yes.” He snagged Will by a belt loop and pulled him closer. “Enough so that I'm almost tempted to forego dinner.”

 

Will couldn't keep his mouth shut. “Only just almost?”

 

He got a thigh between his for a response, a pair of arms that almost drew him off his feet. Hannibal gripped his ass with one hand and reached up with the other, loosely wrapping it around Will's throat. For a few, perfect minutes, Will rode the hard muscle of Hannibal's thigh, reservations and nervousness gone. Then that 'almost' came back around in the form of a teasing kiss, just a flicker of tongue between his lips, and the same strength that had pulled him close now just as effortlessly eased them apart.

 

“Naughty,” Hannibal repeated. He kept his hand around Will's throat a moment longer. “I'll finish up here. Go take care of your dogs now. I'm not letting you out of bed later.”

 

The dogs gave Will weird glances as he let them in. They could smell – no, no, not going there. He set out food, water, and extra treats for them, washed his hands again, and re–entered the kitchen. Now that he wasn't thinking with his dick, he saw the pots and pans that definitely weren't his, the spice racks lined up on the windowsill, the packages full of mysterious ingredients, the stack of linen napkins. He felt a little bad for Hannibal having to make do; on the other hand, it looked as though half of Hannibal's kitchen had somehow found its way here while Will had been snoozing on the couch, so it was probably all right.

 

Hannibal served grilled sausages. “ _Bratwurst_ ,” he explained, “my own recipe.” They were spicy, flecked with little dots of sage and pepper, the fiery red of chilli. The flavour wasn't comparable to any sausage Will had ever eaten before. When he commented on that, Hannibal smiled smugly and told him, “I'm broadening your palate.”

 

“In more ways than one,” Will muttered, spearing the next bite on his fork.

 

Hannibal gave him an odd look. “Do you think I'm trying to change _you_?”

 

“Just being with you changes me.”

 

Hannibal laid his fork and knife down and folded his hands over them. “Change is an active process. You have to want it to let it happen.”

 

“Too simplistic. Stockholm Syndrome, capture bonding – people don't always want change. It just happens.”

 

“Those are survival tools, Will.”

 

“They're still changes.”

 

Making a low sound in his throat, Hannibal cocked his head. “So you're associating being with me with survival.”

 

Under different circumstances, that might well have been the case. Will frowned. “No, I'm _reminding_ myself that those possibilities exist.”

 

“Because you think you're susceptible to them.”

 

“I could be. I can empathize with sociopaths and serial killers – with anybody, really. That's a slippery slope. I feel it's in my best interest to not lose sight of that.” Will stared at his plate. The conversation was dancing around another subject, one that had crossed his mind often over the last days, one they would have to broach eventually. “I'm not like you. You revel. I tolerate.”

 

Hannibal tilted his head the other way. “Does that make you better than me, or worse?”

 

“I don't think it makes me anything. That's not the point.”

 

“Polite society would disagree.”

 

“Polite society disagrees with you, too, but you fit so well in it. That's why no one ever knows what you are.”

 

Hannibal resumed eating. “They don't quite know what you are, either. Breaking free from the mould they've been trying to shoehorn you into could result in casualties.”

 

Will didn't like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

 

“Living a double life can be very tiring.”

 

“You seem to be doing fine.”

 

“I've been _me_ all my life.”

 

“Which nicely brings us back around to slippery slopes and changes.” Will's gaze drifted slowly through the kitchen, with its worn appliances, the lived–in feel, the scratches of dog claws on the floorboards. “I like my life. A few things could stand an overhaul, but overall I'm happy with it.” A dark suspicion stole over him. Hannibal had said 'casualties'. “Hannibal, if you lay a finger on Beverly, I'll –”

 

“I've no intentions towards Miss Katz,” Hannibal cut him off calmly.

 

“Until she's rude to you.”

 

“I don't see our paths crossing very often, unless you plan to make her a regular at my restaurant.”

 

That...no. Will could see what Hannibal meant when he said 'double life'. Beverly, for all her understanding of Will's quirks and head–in–the–clouds attitude and general weirdness, could never know about this. He'd have to do his utmost to keep her out of it. Her, and everyone at work.

 

“What I actually meant,” Hannibal said, “is your problem with the FBI. I suspect that is what you didn't want to talk about on Monday. Am I right?”

 

Begrudgingly, Will nodded. Honestly, after that episode with Freddie Lounds, it wasn't surprising Hannibal had made that leap. “I'll deal with it.”

 

“How?”

 

“I don't know yet. I'll think of something.”

 

Hannibal's lips twitched. “You didn't bring it up with me, not even to discuss, because you're afraid I'd do something drastic.”

 

Astute. Will nodded again.

 

Hannibal lifted a brow. “I'm not your knight in shining armour.”

 

“But you'd do it if I asked you.” Will was a little surprised at the utter conviction in his voice. So was Hannibal. He hid it better, but Will caught the moment of blankness. “I mean –”

 

“Yes.” Hannibal frowned. More softly, he repeated, “Yes.”

 

Will could see it. Freddie Lounds, gone. Made into a Chesapeake Ripper centre piece. Hannibal would leave no evidence and they could give each other alibis if needed. Will closed his eyes and gripped the edge of the table, needing a moment to ground himself. _That_ was that slippery slope, right there. Making problems go away just because he could. The reality was that the death of an FBI agent would triple the focus already on Will. It just wasn't a feasible solution, no matter how tempting it was.

 

“I'll think of something,” he said once more.

 

Hannibal nodded.

 

The solemn mood persisted. After their meal, Will washed the dishes. Hannibal polished the pan, looking thoughtful and a little subdued in that massively understated way he had of displaying emotion. It clawed at Will's heart. He was beginning to wonder if they weren't setting each other up for disappointment, seeing in the other only what they wanted to see. Will's previous relationships had always been exercises in blinding himself with expectation and suffering through the inevitable fallout.

 

If Hannibal was looking for a fellow hunter, Will wasn't that. Will had killed Matthew because he'd had to, not because he wanted it. That he wasn't feeling sorry for it changed nothing about his lack of interest to go looking for Matthew #2.

 

He wondered if that was enough to keep Hannibal. Will wanted to keep him.

 

Hannibal folded up the dish towel. “I have a gift for you. For us both,” he amended. “I wasn't sure when to give it to you, or if I should give it to you at all.”

 

“That sounds ominous.”

 

“Come. It's upstairs.”

 

Will checked on the dogs before they went, made sure the doors were locked, and clicked off the lights. It felt weird, going upstairs. “I haven't been up here in weeks. I usually sleep in the study.”

 

“I could tell,” Hannibal said dryly.

 

The master bedroom greeted them with the crackle of the heating in the vents. Will stopped in the doorway. Hannibal must have spent some time up here while he slept. There were different sheets and pillow cases on the bed, ones Will knew hadn't come from his own closet. The thin layer of dust that usually covered the furniture was gone. A small suitcase had found its way to the rocking chair in the corner.

 

Will battled embarrassment. “I should have cleaned up before you got here.”

 

“It's fine.”

 

“I'm not sure if making you clean up my mess just so we have a place to sleep qualifies as 'fine'.”

 

“A layer of dust isn't a mess.” Hannibal beckoned him closer. “Close the door.”

 

Will watched him dig through the suitcase. The small, oblong box Hannibal presented him with was black and covered in velvet, tied with a black ribbon. He turned it over in his hands. No maker's signature, and the thing was heavier than he'd expected. Will untied the ribbon, aware that Hannibal was watching his every move. He lifted the tiny latch on the side of the box and opened it.

 

Heat shot into his face. He snapped the box shut.

 

“Inappropriate or unwelcome?” Hannibal asked.

 

“Unexpected.”

 

“Of me, or in general?”

 

“Both,” Will murmured. He lifted the lid of the box again. The silver anal plug reflected the light. It wasn't overly large or elaborate, just an egg–shaped top that flared around the middle and a stem that was maybe the thickness of Will's middle finger. The end was a simple, flat disk with a tiny button on its underside. Didn't take a genius to figure out what that button was for. Will ran a finger over the length of the plug, felt how smooth it was. “Where did you buy this?”

 

“Baltimore has many businesses that cater to one's inclinations.”

 

Will tried to imagine Hannibal walking into a sex shop. He failed.

 

Hannibal came closer, cupping Will's elbows. “Do you like it?”

 

“I didn't think you'd be into this stuff.”

 

Hannibal made a small, amused sound. “I'm afraid that there is the extent of my adventurous nature. As the kind woman behind the counter at the store I went to explained to me – at length, I might add – I fall on the very conservative end of a very elaborate spectrum.”

 

“You're more adventurous than me,” Will admitted, grinning at the mental image of Hannibal getting a well–meant lecture on anything. Then he looked at the plug again. He'd always thought of sex toys as something slightly superfluous. Weirdly coloured objects with weirder names he couldn't help find silly, or sized to proportions and shapes he'd never felt enticed to try. No one he'd been with before Hannibal had ever made any forays into that field. But this, this was...classy. Hannibal–y. If it hadn't been so obviously meant for sex, it could have fit in with some of those little art things Will had seen at Hannibal's house.

 

He laughed at that thought.

 

“What is it?” Hannibal asked.

 

“Nothing. Just me being ridiculous.”

 

Hannibal pulled him closer. “Share.”

 

He lifted the plug out of its box, holding it up between them. “The metal sculptures on the windowsill in your study. You do throw parties at your house sometimes, don't you? This would fit right in.”

 

Hannibal chuckled. “You have a devious mind.”

 

“You'd love to watch people look at this and wonder.”

 

“No one would say anything. Good manners would keep them from asking.”

 

“You'd still love it.”

 

“I admit, the idea has a certain appeal.” Hannibal nosed down the side of Will's neck, audibly breathing in right where Will had applied his 'perfume' earlier.

 

Will tapped the plug against Hannibal's chest. “I retain the right to tell you to get it the hell out of me if I don't like it. No ifs or buts about that.”

 

“Of course,” Hannibal said solemnly.

 

For a while, they just kissed. Will was still a little skittish about the whole idea. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Hannibal had bought the damn thing with one intention in mind only – to make him squirm. There was a fine line between squirming and humiliation. Sex shouldn't be this complicated. Will didn't know if it was the toy that added a whole level of weird, or the fact that Hannibal wanted this for the express purpose of watching. He'd watched Will before, but this was different.

 

Still more kisses, Hannibal finding his way into Will's clothes, ridding him of them. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Will's boxer shorts and sank to his knees, dragging them down. Will kicked them to the side. A gentle nip just under his bellybutton. Hannibal licked along the scar on his hip and walked his fingers up the inside of one leg, cupping Will's balls. The pad of one finger rubbed over his hole, making his skin prickle with heat. Hannibal looked so content down there on his knees, just breathing him in.

 

He slipped his hand into the back of Hannibal's shirt, scratched lightly with his nails. “Take this off.”

 

Hannibal rose and unbuttoned his shirt. Will sat on the edge of the bed. It creaked under his weight. He scooted backward, spreading out in the middle of the mattress, and little by little, his focus narrowed to this room, this bed, and the man undressing for him.

 

Hannibal took of his clothes and folded them orderly. He retrieved a discreet, black tube from his suitcase and crawled over Will on all fours, leaving a trail of wet kisses from Will's knee to his lips. Pulling back an inch, he smiled just so. “Watching you will be a pleasure.”

 

Will's mouth ran away from him. “Yeah, because watching me wiggle around on this thing is going to be _so_ –”

 

“Will.”

 

Will huffed. “Duress. Remember?”

 

Looking thoughtful, Hannibal let his weight come down, tangling their legs. “Watching would be a _privilege_ you grant me. Have you thought about it that way?”

 

“You didn't ask my opinion _or_ permission the last few times you watched.”

 

“Different kind of duress.” Hannibal's incisors showed as he smirked.

 

Will poked him in the side.

 

Hannibal sobered. “You're very attractive. There is beauty in pleasure, just as there is in pain, and a particular enjoyment that comes from watching both.”

 

“I sense an 'and'.”

 

“I also think you would be much more comfortable in certain situations if you relaxed with yourself. Is the idea of letting me see you in the throes of pleasure really that upsetting to you? You seemed quite comfortable under the mirrors in my bedroom.”

 

“That was before...look: I generally don't find people staring at me to be very relaxing, no matter where it happens.”

 

“Because you automatically assume they stare with derision.” Hannibal mouthed at Will's jaw. “Do you want to know how many people came up to me on Monday and congratulated me?”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“I've had no less than ten demands that you be present at my next dinner party.”

 

Will groaned. “No. No dinner parties. I'm _not_ giving you the _privilege_ of parading me around like –”

 

“Like you've stolen my heart? Made me break rules I've lived by most of my life, risk my freedom? I don't want to parade you around. I want everyone to know you're mine.”

 

Hannibal was dead serious. The hot rush of that hit in all the right places. Will looked to the side. “Earlier, I was...worried. That I wouldn't be enough, as I am. That I can't be more. Not without not being me.”

 

Hannibal framed Will's head with his arms. “You being you is precisely what I want.”

 

“Bad days and all. In beauty and in pain.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay,” Will murmured, pulling him down. “Okay.”

 

They kissed again. Will let go of some of his reservations. He let Hannibal roll him over onto a convenient pillow and buried his head in his arms: on display again, naked, with his ass in the air. Hannibal nudged his legs apart and sat between them. The crack of the tube lid was jarring. He expected to feel cool, slick metal next, but got a warm, slick tongue instead, stroking his hole. He groaned, lifting his hips into it. Hannibal kept at it until he was aching.

 

Then he shifted, biting gently at Will's ass. He must have kept the plug in his hand the entire time, because it was warm when Will felt it touch him. It opened him faster and wider than he was used to. Sweat broke out at his temples, under his arms. It didn't hurt, but he felt the stretch, and then the thing popped in so suddenly it startled him. He gasped, and heard Hannibal sigh behind him.

 

“Lovely,” Hannibal murmured. He pressed his fingers to Will's ass, holding him open. The plug slid in another centimetre, solid inside and out. “I'm glad I chose silver. It suits you. How does it feel?”

 

“Heavy. Not bad.” Will gripped fistfuls of the sheets. “Turn it on.”

 

Hannibal nudged the toy. “I was told the sensation can be quite intense.”

 

Will didn't hear the click of the button. He only heard his own yelp, muffled against the sheets. He _squirmed_ , reflexively trying to get away from the buzz. His face was burning. He couldn't decide if he hated or loved it, and he couldn't hold still, _fuck damn it_. Hannibal came over him like a breathing shadow, doing it for him, one hand hard between Will's shoulder blades, pushing him down firmly, strong thigh bracketing Will's hips.

 

That made it easier.

 

The initial shock faded. The plug stimulated his hole and his prostrate more intensely than fingers or a cock, but lacked the intimacy. Will turned his head and risked a glance, seeing Hannibal watch him hot–eyed and focused, cock hard. The kick from that was unexpected. Will humped the pillow and moaned. Hannibal sneaked his free hand around to a nipple and pinched it, making him buck.

 

Too much.

 

“Take it out,” Will snarled. “Take it out and fuck me.”

 

He scrabbled to get a hand to his ass. Hannibal beat him to it, clicking off the buzz and easing the plug out of him. He sobbed with relief. Hannibal gave him what he wanted, a slow, solid thrust all the way in. Will clawed at Hannibal's hip, his thigh, any place he could reach. Hannibal was leaning his full weight on his back, fucking him deep and so good. His hole felt so sensitive. He came on the sixth or seventh thrust, lungs burning from lack of air. The world was blurry. Hannibal finished with a long, shuddery sigh.

 

He stroked Will's back and leaned down. “Thank you,” he whispered.

 

Will felt boneless. Sated. Embarrassed – yes. That too. He let Hannibal arrange them to his liking and tucked his head under Hannibal's chin at the earliest opportunity. It took him a while before he thought he could speak. “That thing is going in _you_ , next.”

 

Well. That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

 

“Mm.” Hannibal patted his rump. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

 

–

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW Bratwurst isn't a gourmet food. But Hannibal makes his own, so a lot of work goes into that, and he'd happily feed that to someone. I also haven't forgotten that 90% of the meat at Hannibal's table is people, something Will yet has to discover. It'll become a topic soon.


	14. 14.

**14.**

 

They took a long walk on Saturday morning. Hannibal threw sticks for the dogs to fetch. Leaf and twig crunched underfoot. The air was crisp, leaving them rosy–cheeked on the way back to Will's house. It was such an ordinary, _normal_ thing. They didn't talk much. A comment here and there, about the state of the woods, the dogs, work. Hannibal took Will's hand and tucked it into his coat pocket together with his own.

 

When they returned, Will took his daily dosage of pills and slept dreamlessly and deeply for two hours on the field bed in the study. Hannibal had lunch ready, then: juicy steaks, grilled mushrooms, a crisp salad. He looked mildly panicked when Will announced it was his turn to provide a meal, soon. Will was no chef, but he made a mean burger and he was even better with fish.

 

He crossed his arms. “And if all else fails, there's always pizza. End of discussion.”

 

Hannibal looked horrified.

 

Will bit down on a grin. “You can't be eating gourmet meals _all_ the time. What do you do when you get a hankering and just want a snack? Have you ever had a sandwich in all your life?”

 

Hannibal ticked off points on his fingers. “Freshly baked bread, none of that store–bought, tasteless nonsense. Real butter. Tomatoes that taste like they should. Meat that deserves the name.”

 

“This is really important to you.”

 

“It is one of the most important aspects of my life.” Hannibal looked at him intently. “A good meal, prepared with care and attention to detail, is love.”

 

Hearing it described like that evoked images of the Good Wife of the 1950's slaving away in the kitchen until the man of the house returned. Carefully, Will chose not to mention that. He enjoyed a good meal as much as the next person, but the effort involved, the hours, the judgemental shopping, the sheer knowledge required, always seemed like too much work and fuss. Food was fuel. Good food was better fuel. That was where his interest in the topic began to wane.

 

“I'll teach you,” Hannibal vowed.

 

“You already have a sous–chef,” Will said warily. “And I like my job.”

 

“To cook for _us_ ,” Hannibal clarified.

 

Compared to what else being with Hannibal had taught him, was still teaching him, cooking was tame, and he had liked those few times they stood side by side in Hannibal's kitchen, preparing a meal. “I'll give it a try. Just don't expect wonders. Most likely I won't be very good at it.”

 

“I never ask for the impossible, Will. Only the probable.”

 

–

 

Monday morning, Hannibal drove them back to Baltimore. Will's low–key good mood evaporated the moment he set foot in the _Sun's_ lobby. His only consolation was that Purnell looked about as happy to see him as he was to see her. Holding out a takeaway coffee cup, she nodded at the grey morning outside. “Walk with me.”

 

He made no motion to take the coffee. “I'm supposed to be at work in ten minutes.”

 

Purnell nudged the cup against his chest until he had no choice but to take it. “No, you're not.”

 

Will followed her out into the cold air. “What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“Got a new body.” Purnell walked with measured steps. The street was covered with a thin ice slush. “We're sure it's a Ripper kill, but I'd like you to come take a look.”

 

“You didn't answer my question.”

 

“What do you want to hear, that I called your boss and told him we need your help this morning?”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Will dumped the coffee into a trash can. “I've just about had it with you. First you threaten to arrest me, then you want my help,  _then_ I find out I'm still a suspect, and now you're here again?”

 

“The FBI's Ripper profile indicates –”

 

“Fuck you. I gave you that profile. _Your_ profile had so many holes in it you could drive a truck through them.” A couple walking past them hurried their steps. Will felt their glances. Purnell remained completely unfazed. She'd probably heard worse over the course of her career. After a moment, she gave a small nod, conceding the point to him. Will groaned and rubbed at his face, trying to reign in his temper. Curiosity was nagging at him, too; it was different now, knowing it was Hannibal behind the Ripper. “Why do you even need me if you're sure it was the Ripper?”

 

“Because something was different.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“I think you should see for yourself.”

 

Will dithered. Hannibal had left him a present – another surprise. He didn't think this one would come in a velvet–covered box. Crawford would already be pissed off, so coming in late wasn't going to make a difference. 

 

“Look,” Purnell said, “the body was discovered on Friday evening, still oozing blood. We know you were at the Noble Hills Care Centre on Friday morning, and that you stayed at work till the afternoon. We know when you and Mister Lecter arrived at your house, and we know you didn't leave it until Sunday. I'm sure you can figure out how we know that.”

 

“You had me under surveillance.”

 

Purnell nodded.

 

Will turned on his heel and strode back toward the _Sun_ building. Purnell caught up with him. “Standard procedure, Graham.” She blocked his path. “And it's working to your advantage. Think about it. Whether you like it or not, the FBI can prove you didn't kill this one.”

 

“'This one'. You're missing my point.”

 

“No,” Purnell said hotly, “you're missing the point. This is a multiple murder investigation. We're talking about a serial killer with to date thirty–eight victims. You're part of the investigation – you've been part of it for years, with your articles, your column. If I can take steps to eliminate you from the suspect list, I'll take them. And I don't give a _flying fuck_ if you like it or not.”

 

Will snorted. “So I'm supposed to be grateful?”

 

Purnell sighed. “You're supposed to be happy that we know you didn't kill the man we found on Friday. That goes a long way toward proving you didn't kill any of the others, either.” She checked her watch. “I'm heading back to Quantico. Do you want to take a look at the body or not?”

 

There was so much in their short, heated conversation Will definitely wasn't happy about. Curiosity won out. "Fine. Let's go.”

 

He told himself this was the last time.

 

Forty minutes later, he stood next to a row of stainless steel body lockers in what Frederick Chilton called 'his lab', which was really just a prettier name for 'morgue'. Chilton bustled about with an air of self–importance, prattling on and on about some kind of grass and transference. Will listened with only half an ear. He'd expected a body, not three steel stretchers with body _parts_. Judging by the various lumps under the white surgical sheets, Hannibal had really gone to town on this one. 

 

For the first time ever, Will didn't try to assume the killer's motivations, that other point of view. He concentrated on himself, listening very carefully to his reactions. Revulsion was there. Even the large overhead ventilators couldn't suck up that mix of chemicals and the sweetness of early decay. Slight lightness of the head and queasiness, but that had more to do with his daily dosage of pills than his surroundings. He wanted to reach out and run his hands over the sheet–covered pieces, to judge by shape what they were, to match reality to imagination; he wished he could have stood at the crime site and seen the body as Hannibal meant it to be seen.

 

Chilton came to the end of his monologue. With a grand gesture, he folded back the sheets.

 

Purnell turned away after a short look. Will stepped closer. The victim was male and white, thirty to forty years old, with black hair. The limbs and head had been severed with that neatness he was used to seeing now and associated with Hannibal. From the crime scene photos, Will knew the head had been lying on its side when it was discovered, leaving the cheek and nose squashed to waxen flatness and distorting the facial features. The rest of the body had been strung up between two trees using some expensive kind of silk, like a fly in a spider's web.

 

_What's this one done? Was he rude to you?_

 

Chilton consulted a clipboard. “Very little blood at the scene, so this man was killed somewhere else and transported to Patterson Park.”

 

“Standard procedure for the Ripper. He wants time and privacy for what he does. Has the victim been identified?”

 

“Name's Benjamin Raspail. He's a flute player with the Baltimore State Orchestra and was reported missing a week ago.”

 

Will studied the pale, bloodless limbs, that sad, flat face. He'd profiled the Ripper picked his victims based on personal experience with them – some slight or not so slight insult they'd, perhaps even unintentionally, dealt him. Hannibal liked classic music. Will refrained from asking if Raspail had been a _good_ flute player. 

 

The more he stared at the dismembered corpse, the more he noticed an absence. He pointed at the gaping cut in Raspail's belly. “Was anything in there when the body was found?”

 

Chilton shook his head.

 

Purnell stepped up to Will's side. “See what I mean?”

 

Will saw _something_. It sat like an itch between his shoulder blades, shapeless and nameless, unknown. “Can you – I need to see the inside.”

 

Chilton sent Purnell a long look, then shrugged and donned a pair of surgical gloves. He held open the sides of the incision.

 

Inside the body, Will saw the lower ribs, the bottom of the lungs, large veins. The heart was still there. So were, by his estimate, the other inner organs. Only the bowels were gone.

 

Chilton zipped the used gloves into a waste basket. “So, Mister Graham...any _insights_?”

 

Will sucked on his lip, thinking. He'd always suspected the Ripper – Hannibal – took surgical trophies. There were just too many organs and sometimes chunks of flesh missing from the victims to account for curiosity about how the body worked, or to be justified by the need to cut off what was in the way. In most cases, other objects had replaced or covered was what missing – like the flowers in Sheldon Isley's body.  Will hadn't seen any obvious glass jars containing human remains at Hannibal's house, and he doubted he would find a collection if he were to venture into the cellar, either, but it was a fact that Ripper victims tended to turn up with missing parts.

 

But the bowels?

 

The other organs were still there.  The body had been strung up, not twisted, folded or otherwise contorted to make removal of the bowels a necessity while leaving everything else inside. 

 

Will imagined reaching into that warm, wet cavity, pulling out yards of soft, squishy innards. His shudder was not entirely one of disgust. He felt like a child, staring at the mud puddle before jumping in with both feet to enjoy the mess. 

 

Purnell watched him. “What are you thinking?”

 

“I'm not sure.” Will walked a few steps, keeping the open belly in his line of sight. “He's taken hearts before, livers, lungs, spleens, kidneys. Lots of cultures assign symbolical meaning to the inner organs and remove them prior to embalming, incineration or burial, and we know the Ripper is all about symbolism and meanings. But in this body, all those organs are intact and present. The bowels are among the first things to decompose, due to the gases and bacteria in the gastrointestinal tract. They would be incredibly difficult to preserve.”

 

Chilton joined the conversation. “And incredibly vile to prepare. An adult's bowels are about 7 metres long. Imagine cleaning that out. Just thinking about the smell makes me want to throw up breakfast.” He gave Will a not-so-disparaging glance. “Good biological knowledge, by the way.”

 

Purnell made a sound of disgust. “I can get behind taking the heart, or even the lungs. But what does he want with the bowels?”

 

“Maybe he's making sausage,” Chilton snarked.

 

Will nearly walked into a body locker. “What?”

 

“Sausage.” Chilton mimed stuffing something. “That's how it's done. Pig or bovine intestines are filled with –”

 

“Frederick,” Purnell sounded horrified, “that's absurd.”

 

Chilton threw his hands up. “It was just a joke. No need to bite my head off.”

 

Will stood very still. Sausage. _Bratwurst_. It hit him: hearts, livers, lungs, kidneys – all used in cooking.  Not trophies.  Ingredients.  _Food_ . The chunks and slabs of missing flesh – steaks, ragouts, minced meat. Served with a nice wine and fresh vegetables, brought to the table with a flourish and the proud smile of the master chef, and _please do ask for seconds_.

 

Purnell came over, looking concerned and sour–faced again. “I think that's enough. Let's go. Thanks, Frederick.”

 

Chilton waved them off, already back to looking at slides of different kinds of grass.

 

Outside in the crisp air, Will paced on the entrance steps. Hannibal the Cannibal. It had a certain poetic ring.  In Hannibal's beautiful, savage world, the best hunter stood at the top of the food chain. That raw, hungry thing nesting in Hannibal's core devoured its prey because it was its right to do so, and...

 

And it tasted good. Tasty sausages. Spicy ragouts. Delicate concoctions prepared with – how had Hannibal put it? A good meal, prepared with care and attention to detail, is love.

 

That gave a whole new meaning to Will calling Hannibal's victims 'pigs'.

 

Will stopped pacing, looking out over the filled parking lot.  There was something else Benjamin Raspail's body told him.

 

The victim of this latest case had been strung up between trees, a fly in the spider's web. White. Thirties to forties. Dark hair. Will's hand went halfway up to his curls before he remembered Purnell was out here with him, watching him. He wondered if she was seeing the resemblance, too. It was all he could see now. And the spider web? Hannibal's design, the symbolism obvious: Will caught in the net of the FBI, torn to pieces. 

 

Almost a love note. A puzzle, to keep him entertained. 

 

_See?_

 

_Yes._

 

“What do you make of this?” Purnell asked after a while. “Did he get bored with the other stuff, or are the missing bowels a message, or what?”

 

Frederick Chilton had named one of the key elements that could lead to the capture of the Chesapeake Ripper.  Purnell didn't know how close she was.  They wouldn't be able to prove anything  without physical evidence , but if it came to light that the Ripper was indeed feasting on his victims, the FBI would have to be absolute idiots to not make the logical jump and look at the _chef_ currently occupying so much of Will's time.

 

“I don't know if someone like the Ripper ever gets bored.” Will needed time to think, to plan. “It's just one random element in the entire picture. Not enough to make assumptions.” 

 

Purnell sighed. “So we write this up as just another typical Ripper case.”

 

He could see how disappointed she was. “I already told Bloom I'm not going to magically solve these cases for you. Right now, I have absolutely no incentive to want to help the FBI.”

 

Purnell's expression soured. “You're a drama queen, Graham.”

 

“I'm also an American citizen with rights you can't just waltz over whenever it suits you.” He measured her with a cool glance. “Next time you want something from me, call me and I'll decide _if_ I want to help you.”

 

“That's not how it works, and you know it. Either you're in, or you're out.”

 

The decision was easy to make, all of a sudden. No hemming, hawing, no second thoughts. “Then I'm out. I quit. If I catch Freddie Lounds 'gathering impressions' again, I'll sue you and your entire department for harassment and misconduct. I have absolutely no qualms about making any of this public, including the fact that the FBI prompted a newspaper to keep a murder case quiet so they could get to one of the reporters.”

 

She narrowed her eyes. “I'd be careful with threats, Mister Graham.”

 

“I'm just pointing out that actions have consequences, even the actions of federal agents. You have nothing on me except for a few notes and some confiscated computer drives with material anyone with eyes in their head and half a brain could have put together.” It felt good to put his foot down. He should have done that sooner. “I am not, and I never was, the Chesapeake Ripper. You'll have to find another scapegoat to pin this one on, if that's what you're looking for.”

 

Will didn't wait for an answer. He left Purnell standing on the steps and strode away.

 

–

 

That night at home, Will went to the fridge and took out the plate with the leftovers from the weekend: half a sausage, some potatoes, a few bundles of green beans wrapped with strips of bacon. He carried the plate to the trash can and then stood there staring down at it. Discovering Hannibal was a cannibal – discovering that Hannibal had made him an unwitting participant in breaking one of the greatest taboos of the western world – had yet to have any kind of significant impact. All day at work, Will had been waiting for the second shoe drop, for bile to rise in his throat, for the muscles in his legs to tense in preparation for a quick dash to the men's room.

 

From a neutral standpoint, meat was meat regardless of source. The human race wasn't used to being the main ingredient in someone else's meal plan these days; that didn't make humans any less edible in general. Occupying the place at the top of the food chain was no guarantee that nothing would ever surpass them.

 

Will also hated wasting food.

 

He popped the plate into the microwave and sat down to eat. The first bite of sausage brought a hundred impressions of Benjamin Raspail quartered and dead on a steel slab. Then the aroma unfolded, the spiciness of the chilli with the flavour of the meat, the juices trickling between his teeth and over his tongue. He recalled Hannibal standing over the pan, flipping the sausages, the fragments of conversation: homely, comfortable, easy, safe. Will's kitchen had smelled so good he'd had trouble keeping the dogs out.

 

Even now, Buster stood at the door, doing his best to appear not interested while sending hopeful glances at the plate on the table.

 

Will had to smile. “This isn't for you.”

 

He finished his meal and washed up. With a shot of whiskey and a cup of coffee, he retreated to the study, setting up camp on the field bed. It took him twenty minutes to add the details of the Benjamin Raspail murder to his notes and files, his ever–growing Ripper collection.

 

Then he began to research Freddie Lounds.

 

–

 

Wednesday morning, Will was early for his appointment at the Noble Hills Care Centre. He wandered the waiting room to pass the time. It was what he expected the waiting rooms of specialist doctors who made more in a month than Will made in a year to look like: leather couches, thick carpet, bookshelves, all in that 'old and worn' style that cost thousands of dollars. Framed on the wall hung Budge's diplomas and recommendations. Will poked through the magazine rack in the corner. The usual: today's newspaper, scientific journals, a few gossip rags. He also found a year's worth of publications of a music magazine he'd never heard of before, _The Strings._ On the back of each magazine was a little sticker with Budge's name and address, the latter carefully blocked out with black marker.

 

“Mister Graham?”

 

Will nearly jumped. “Fuck!”

 

Doctor Budge held up both hands, a look of contrition on his face. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to spook you. I called your name...”

 

“I get that a lot.” Will put the magazine back and caught Budge's inquisitive expression. “Attention problem.”

 

“Attention deficit?” Budge asked neutrally.

 

“No, I tune out everything around me sometimes, especially when I concentrate. I wouldn't call that a deficit.”

 

Doctors usually wanted to say something; his 'attention problem' was what had gotten Will onto the shrink's couch in New Orleans in the first place.

 

Budge just nodded. “Come in, please.” He poked and prodded at Will for ten minutes, taking his temperature and blood pressure, asking about queasiness and if Will was keeping up his medication schedule. After he'd washed his hands at the small sink in the corner, he sat behind his desk. “We'll schedule another MRI for next week. Your elevated body temperature is back to normal already. Have you abstained from the Aspirin?”

 

“Yes, actually.” Will hadn't taken any since last week.

 

“Any headaches?”

 

“No.” While Budge wrote some notes, Will's gaze landed on a little display cabinet on the wall behind the doctor, showcasing miniature string instruments. “Do you play?”

 

Budge followed his gaze. “Yes, the violin. Do you have an interest in music, Mister Graham?”

 

Will laughed shortly. “Trust me, you don't want me anywhere near anything that produces sound.”

 

Budge chuckled and jotted down more notes. “Don't let Hannibal hear that.”

 

The off–hand comment caught Will by surprise. “You know Hannibal Lecter?”

 

Budge looked caught. “I'm sorry. That just slipped out.”

 

“You know him, though.”

 

“We're both members of the Baltimore Symphony Board. I eat at his restaurant once or twice per month, time permitting.” Budge winced. “I saw you there on Monday last week, and I thought...well...”

 

Monday, the evening Hannibal had kissed his hand at _Mischa's_ , had let everyone see. Budge must have been among the guests witnessing that little spectacle. Will relaxed slightly. He'd been arbitrarily aware that public displays of affection would lead to inevitable conclusions; he had _not_ expected his neuroscientist to drop comments, or for the world to be that small. “It's all right,” he said finally. “We're together.”

 

Budge smiled. “Congratulations, then.” He blew out a little breath. “Now, let's get back to discussing your treatment before I embarrass myself any further.”

 

Ten minutes later, riding the elevator with the new prescription for his second round of antibiotics in his pocket, Will's brain made an unexpected, intuitive leap.

 

String instruments. Violins. Cat guts.

 

_Human guts?_

 

He didn't know. He would find out.

 

Just a few hours later, Beverly walked past his desk close enough to catch sight of the computer screen. She made a low sound of disgust while Will hurried to minimize the browser window. He'd been researching the manufacturing processes of string instruments all morning and found some rather obscure and graphically detailed websites. Beverly looked at him askance. “Do I want to know?”

 

“Work–related.”

 

“You mean FBI–related.”

 

Will nodded.

 

Beverly sat on the edge of his desk. “You're still working with them?”

 

“Nope.” Neither Purnell nor Doctor Bloom had called him. Will hadn't seen Freddie Lounds, either, though that didn't mean much. “I quit on Monday.”

 

“Ah. When you came in late again and Crawford was in a crap mood all day.”

 

Will sighed. “Yeah.”

 

Beverly motioned at the computer screen. “And this?”

 

“Just something from the last case that stuck with me. Nothing important.”

 

“Nothing important and you're looking at dead cats?” Beverly looked disturbed. “Good thing you got out.” They sat in silence for a minute, then she changed the subject. “Hey, you wanna come to the football game on Friday?”

 

“Sorry, Bev, but I already have plans.”

 

Beverly's grin turned salacious. “Ah, l'amour. If I'd known it would be this easy to make a decent human being out of you, I'd have set you up with someone years ago.”

 

Will pretended to be hurt. “So I was an indecent human being before?”

 

She gave him a friendly bump on the shoulder and a more genuine smile. “It's really great to see you happy, you know. Hannibal's good for you. Stick with him.”

 

If there was anything Will was absolutely certain about, it was this. “I plan to.”

 

–

 

 


	15. 15.

**15.**

 

It was Friday. Will parked in the _Sun's_ lot, knowing he could leave the car there for the weekend, and walked to _Mischa's_ on foot. The temperature had dropped overnight. The weather forecast warned about black ice and harsh winds. Although the cold was biting at his cheeks and nose, Will liked the city like this, especially at night: quieter, emptier. The few people he passed walked with their hands thrust deeply into their pockets and their eyes scanning the side walk for treacherous slippery spots.

 

Will was thoroughly chilled by the time he reached _Mischa's_. He stood in the tunnel–like entrance area for a moment, analysing the good feeling of reaching a place where he wanted to be. Usually, that feeling was reserved for the moment when he stepped into his house after a long day at work, when his dogs ran up to welcome him. _Mischa's_ greeted him with warmth and the steady ebb and flow of conversation, the clink of silverware and wine glasses, all signs of a form of socializing he normally wanted to avoid. The company of people was tiring and often tedious. Social and conversational cues he tended to miss, codes of conduct that didn't make any sense to him, small talk he never wanted to have because it was excruciatingly boring –

 

This felt different. This was Hannibal's world, and Hannibal was making a place for him in it. Will could see it, metaphorically and literally; the small table in the corner by the bar, with the red table cloth and the card.

 

He was ready to take it. He wanted to take it.

 

Surreptitiously scanning the other tables while he took off his scarf and gloves and hung up his coat, Will saw no familiar faces. Bedelia was watching his entrance with an air of mild surprise. Will tried not to guess what she was thinking. The suit he was wearing had been a spur of the moment purchase. The salespeople at the men's clothing store he stalked into earlier in the week like it was a battleground had assured him it was very understated, an everyday item. He'd barely recognized himself in the mirror at the store until he really looked and saw it: something emerging, finally set free.

 

That something wore a suit well.

 

Even if it felt a bit like he was dressing up with more than just cloth, Will couldn't deny that second skin felt good. Different. Powerful.

 

He stopped at the bar. “Could you tell Hannibal I'm here?”

 

“Already done.”

 

“Thanks. I'll take my seat, then.”

 

Bedelia's smile remained firmly in place. “Please do.”

 

Will's brain made its second intuitive leap of the week. Bedelia was jealous.

 

Unrequited love? Or was she looking out for Hannibal and saw the frumpy reporter, a possible threat, a freeloader hoping for material gain by association, an uncultured swine who didn't know better than to wear chewed–on sweaters to first–class restaurants?

 

Too bad for Bedelia, no matter what she thought. The place at Hannibal's side was _his_.

 

The new waitress introduced herself as Margot and brought him the wine he ordered and the – by now expected – appetizer. Will lingered over each bite. Hannibal was literally feeding him _hearts_. The first one hadn't had the same meaning as the ones that followed. The first one had been a barb aimed true, mockery. The ones that followed were aimed elsewhere, and it wasn't his stomach.

 

Margot came to collect the plate when he was done. “Mister Lecter says he'll be busy for a half hour before he can join you, and that you, and I quote, don't need the menu.”

 

Will watched the guests. He was with the crowd, not _in_ the crowd; a safe distance remained that kept them from spilling over into him. That was always a problem: not the number of bodies, but the sheer unmanageable number of impressions and associations they put out, the too intimate brushes of elbows and arms when he didn't want to be touched. It wasn't so bad from his table in the corner.

 

Hannibal slid into the chair next to Will. “I apologize for the wait.” His gaze was appraising.

 

Will lowered his gaze. “Yes, I went shopping. Don't let it get to my head.”

 

“You look delicious,” Hannibal said earnestly. “I can introduce you to my personal tailor, if you like.”

 

“So you're saying the suit doesn't fit?”

 

“I'm saying that if you plan to expand your wardrobe, I'd be more than happy to offer assistance. One suit isn't a wardrobe, it's a start.”

 

Margot brought Hannibal a glass of wine. When she was out of earshot, Will scooted closer. “Maybe. I don't know yet.” Self-consciously, he touched the knot of the tie at his throat. “I feel over-dressed. Not bad,” he amended, “just – not used to it.”

 

“A step out of your comfort zone.”

 

“I'm hoping you'll put me back _in_ my comfort zone later.”

 

The slow smile spreading on Hannibal's lips was a promise. “With pleasure.”

 

Franklyn served them dinner. A few guests craned their necks to catch sight of the beautifully arranged contents of the silver platter taking up the centre of Will's private table. The meat was dark, crisp on the outside, butter-soft at the centre. Wild boar, Hannibal told him. Will ate slowly, questions lingering on his tongue. He didn't think Hannibal kept a stock of human meat in the restaurant freezers, too dangerous in case the FDA popped in for a surprise visit. The hearts had to be an exception, treats for special guests.

 

“I received your gift, by the way,” Will announced. “It gave me an insight. A culinary reveal, so to speak.”

 

Hannibal looked at him curiously. “How did it make you feel?”

 

“It upset me. Initially. Took me a while to understand why I was upset, though.” Will licked fat and sauce off his lips. “I thought the whole idea was to _see_ me when I'm under duress. You weren't there when I had my epiphany.”

 

“I felt it was better that way. I can put you under duress later to make up for it.”

 

Will laughed shortly. “I wanted to throw away the leftovers when I got home. Instead, I ate them.”

 

Hannibal's eyes gleamed. “The meat tastes so much better when it has time to soak up the spices, doesn't it?”

 

Will leaned in, smiling sweetly. “You're devious. Any other epiphanies you want me to have?”

 

“No, I think that was it.”

 

“You _think_?”

 

Hannibal cocked his head. He'd heard the undertone in Will's voice. “I promise.”

 

“I'll hold you to that.”

 

Hannibal took Will's hand. “My world is better with you in it. I want to show and give you so much that at times it,” he paused, looking raw, “frightens me.”

 

The words sank, sweet and sharp, into Will's core. It was his turn to make a public spectacle, kissing Hannibal's knuckles and cradling his hand in both of his while the slow shudder worked its way through him, the world around them a dim curtain of light and sound for one perfect moment. He let go reluctantly. The weight of too many gazes rested on him. He didn't let that ruin the moment, kept his head down and focused on the meal before him, basking in the warmth of the presence at his side.

 

He changed the subject to something a little less dangerous. “Thanks for the blunt force metaphor, by the way. I'm curious – was Raspail that bad a flute player, or did you pick him because he looked so much like me it's a miracle no one immediately pointed it out?”

 

“A bit of both. His very existence was an insult to music. I'm sure the Baltimore orchestra won't miss him.” Hannibal made an odd sound, half laugh, half derision. “In fact, two days after he was announced missing, they recruited a promising new talent to replace him.”

 

“Sad to see you go, but please don't come back?”

 

“Precisely. Cruel, isn't it? Raspail wasn't even dead then. The human capability to be thoughtlessly cruel never ceases to amaze me.”

 

Images of Benjamin Raspail in pieces danced before Will's eyes. “Where do you keep them? Before you...”

 

Hannibal extended his little finger and stroked the back of Will's hand. “I'll show you. But not this weekend. I would like to stay in, if you're amenable and the fates don't conspire against us.” His smile turned impish. “I'll turn off the bell and barricade the doors and windows, to make sure they don't.”

 

“No surprise visits, unless someone crawls in through the chimney. I quit. Raspail was the last. I told them I'd sue if they don't stop bothering me.”

 

“Good.” Hannibal nodded approvingly. “I'll introduce you to my lawyer, if you need help with legal matters.”

 

They finished dinner. Hannibal returned to the kitchen. Will passed the time reading a book until the last guests were gone and Margot began to collect table cloths and menus. Bedelia cleaned up her work space in record time and left first. Will put his book away. “All right if I go into the kitchen?”

 

Margot shrugged. “The way I see it, you're boss number two. You don't need my permission.”

 

Will studied her. Late twenties, early thirties, attractive. There was something about her that struck him as sad and melancholic. She was friendly and professional, but she kept a careful distance between herself and the guests, and between herself and the rest of the staff. Personal problems. Not _his_ problems, but he couldn't resist. “Are you all right?”

 

She looked up from folding used table cloths. “Why wouldn't I be?” Will didn't answer. She blew out a breath. “It's none of your business. Sorry.”

 

Will held up a hand. “I'm the one who should apologize.”

 

He was at the door to the kitchen when Margot spoke again. “You're a reporter, aren't you?”

 

Will leaned against the bar. “With the _Baltimore Sun_ , yes.”

 

Margot looked at him for a long time, expression blank. “Ever heard of the Verger family?”

 

He searched his memory. “Northern Maryland. Old, rich. Major employer in the area.” The right storage folder in his brain opened on cue. “You're Margot Verger?”

 

“The very same.”

 

The Vergers were obscenely rich and firmly entrenched in local politics on the right-wing side of the spectrum. Gideon had run an article about them a couple of months ago, lauding them as one of the few meat suppliers in America who kept up with sanitary and other standards in the industry. “Why is the heir to the Verger family working as a waitress?”

 

Margot's face remained blank. “My brother is the heir, not me. I have the wrong parts and the wrong proclivity for parts. Like you, just the other way around.”

 

“I get it.”

 

Margot coolly measured him again. Finally, she seemed to make a decision. “What if I told you I had a story for you?”

 

“I write a crime column, Margot, not family drama.”

 

“All families are drama. Mine is really good at drama. We've just learned to hide it. Money can bury a lot of things.” She waited a beat. “Even bodies.”

 

Now Will was intrigued. “I'm going to need more than that.”

 

“My brother is a paedophile. We run a summer camp for children from poor households, and he's been preying on those kids for years. My family has been keeping it quiet. Our father died last year, so Mason has all the power now as the sole heir. They're all keeping their mouths shut because they're afraid he'll cut them off.”

 

It was easy to put two and two together from there. Will cocked his head. “You didn't learn about your brother's dirty secret recently. You've known it longer than that. Years. Why the sudden change of heart?”

 

Margot looked incredibly brittle for a moment, like she could just snap down the middle and shatter into a million pieces. “Nobody wants to admit that their own brother is a monster.”

 

There was something else. Will didn't press her for more. “Why not talk to the police?”

 

Margot snorted. “Like I said, money can bury a lot of things. You say you write a crime column. Mason should be right up your alley. And now excuse me, but I have to finish cleaning up. I don't want to miss the bus. And Mister Graham...this conversation never happened. If anyone asks me if I talked to you, I'll lie. I don't want to end up dead in a ditch.”

 

Will raised his brows. “Is that exaggeration?”

 

“No,” Margot said bluntly, “it's what I know my brother is capable of.”

 

Will left her alone, returning to his table instead of going into the kitchen like he'd planned. He needed a moment to sort through the conversation. He'd worked on crimes that involved children or teenagers; those were the worst. He wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in this one, and he went through intense moral acrobatics attempting to justify to himself why it would be the right thing to do – while at the same time, he was waiting for a cannibalistic serial killer to finish cleaning up a kitchen so they could go back to said serial killer's house and spend the majority of the weekend fucking.

 

He didn't notice Hannibal approach until Hannibal ran a hand down his arm. “Will?”

 

“Present. Sorry.” Will looked around. They were alone. The lights were dimmed. The chairs had been put up. Hannibal was holding Will's coat and a cellophane-wrapped platter. “Is that cheese?”

 

“From Franklyn.”

 

“That's...sweet of him?”

 

Hannibal laughed under his breath. “I'll be sure to tell him that.”

 

-

 

At the house, Hannibal lightly touched Will's arm. “Take a shower, please. I've put out a robe for you.”

 

Will soaped up, thoughts wandering while he stood under the hot spray. He had vague ideas of wanting that to change their weekend routine. Less coordination. Less planning. Having Hannibal every evening, not just Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.

 

The bedroom was lit by firelight when he came in. Hannibal stood at the window looking out into the garden, warm gold on the planes of his back and cool moonlight on his face.

 

Will let the bathrobe slide off and walked to the large bed, digging through his carry-all. “Come here.”

 

Hannibal joined him, lips twisting in a grin. “Is it my turn?”

 

Will tossed the black velvet box onto the bed. “Quid pro quo, Mister Lecter. I told you.” He tried not to let on how much he was looking forward to seeing that flash of silver between the cheeks of Hannibal's ass, but judging by the indulgent, fond expression on Hannibal's face, he wasn't doing a very good job. “Consider it a challenge.”

 

Hannibal's eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

 

“Just – just get on the bed, please.” Dirty talk wasn't one of Will's strong points. He thought it was better to show what he had in mind.

 

Hannibal's smile turned sly. “Do you plan to put me under _duress_?”

 

“Maybe. Yeah.”

 

Hannibal kissed the side of his neck. It quickly devolved into a filthy wet kiss and shins bumping against the edge of the bed. Will tumbled them onto the sheets and grabbed the lube, trying to keep his nerves and resolve together. He'd never asked anyone to do something like this. Hannibal's eagerness was fuelling him. He pushed Hannibal onto his back, biting the inside of his cheek when those long legs parted for him and let him see everything. Hannibal reclined against the pillows with an arm behind his head and a 'do your worst' expression that fuelled other parts of Will, darker, reckless parts.

 

He slicked up the plug. Watching Hannibal's ass open slowly around the blunt width nearly made him come. The pink skin looked so delicate stretched so wide, and then it swallowed the whole thing, like a hungry mouth. Will laid his cheek on Hannibal's thigh, bent nearly in half, fighting for control. Fingers carded through his hair, gentle. Hannibal's only response to the invasion was a deeper breath and slight tensing of the muscles of his stomach.

 

Will sat up and reached behind himself. The angle of his hand and fingers did nothing for him except spread the lube where it was supposed to go; watching Hannibal's eyes widening slightly as realization dawned on him what _exactly_ the challenge was going to be was so much better. More lube, this time generously applied to the hard cock curving up toward Hannibal's belly.

 

Hannibal's hand closed around his wrist. “I want you on your back. So you can watch -”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hannibal rolled them over. “Hold yourself open for me.” He tapped a finger against Will's chin. “And look up.”

 

The Will reflected in the ceiling mirrors was flushed from his cheeks down to his chest. Will hooked his arms under his knees, pulling until they nearly touched his shoulders, and stared with transfixed fascination. Hannibal put two fingers in him, his other hand on the back of Will's thigh, tilting him to the best angle. Will's cock jumped, a heavy, hot weight with a life of its own. “Don't – not -”

 

Hannibal rubbed his prostate, patient as a glacier. “Yes?”

 

Will moaned. “Don't open me too much. I want to feel it tomorrow.”

 

“You will,” Hannibal promised, and continued to sweetly torment him. “I thought about buying another gift for you. Smaller. Remote controlled. Something you could wear in public – at the restaurant, perhaps, or at a dinner party. It would be risky, of course. The sound can be rather...noticeable.”

 

Will clenched his eyes shut. “You wouldn't turn it on. You – ah – you'd love to have me worrying you _could_.” He endured another minute of Hannibal sparking bright pleasure inside him, toes curling, biting down on the sounds that crawled up his throat. Hannibal's suggestion had opened the floodgates on a whole slew of erotic images.

 

Finally, Hannibal pulled his fingers out. Will's breath of relief turned into a guttural moan at the slight burn of Hannibal's cock replacing them. He looked up and watched the final inches sink into him, filling him full. Hannibal held himself up above him on knees and hands, thrusting slowly and deeply. Will put his hands on Hannibal's back, feeling the muscles tense and bunch under his palms. He reached down to Hannibal's ass, feeling the base of the plug against his fingertips and tapping it.

 

The sound of the vibrations was _obscenely_ loud.

 

Hannibal surged into him with a muffled snarl, sending them both up the bed several inches. Will clamped his arms and legs around the other man, holding on. It was all he could do – between the perfect, hard thrusts and the mirrors showing him the plug appearing and disappearing with each undulation of Hannibal's hips, his mind was coming apart alarmingly fast. He scratched his nails over the sweat-moist skin of Hannibal's back, up to his neck, into his hair. He gripped a handful, pulling Hannibal's head down to his chest. “Bite.”

 

Hannibal froze above him. “ _Will_.”

 

“ _Do it_.”

 

Hannibal bit. Will screamed and arched up from the bed, pain and pleasure mingling. Hannibal wound his arms around him, sucking hard at the burning spot, scraping teeth and hungry, _wounded_ noises. One more thrust and Will was coming, spending between their bellies. Up above in the mirrors, his wide-eyed, open-mouthed reflection, thighs cradling, arms holding, watched him twist and squirm. Hannibal reared up like an animal tearing free a chunk of meat, mouth and chin red, gasping for breath.

 

Perfect. Yes.

 

Hannibal yanked out the plug, tossing it over the edge of the bed. He looked stunned, lost. Wild.

 

He was still hard, thick and hot deep in Will's guts.

 

“Come on,” Will murmured, reaching up to touch that dripping red. His hand was shaking. He felt weak and light-headed from the adrenaline surge. His chest hurt. “Finish it.”

 

Hannibal shuddered. “Will,” he said again, reverently. He curled over him, around him, fucked Will's pliant body, mouth pressed against the bite, quiet when he came, only a soft moan.

 

Will drifted for a while, exhausted and satisfied. For a change, Hannibal didn't fall asleep right after. Will listened to him moving around the bedroom. He caught glimpses of himself in the mirrors. The bite mark was above his left nipple, red and throbbing now: deep bruises from the blunter teeth, deep gauges from Hannibal's crooked incisors, raised skin, a suck mark at the centre. It would scar.

 

Hannibal sat on the bed, catching Will's hand before he could touch the bite. He had a small first-aid kit – of course he had a small first-aid kit – and a warm, wet towel. Will held still and let him clean the wound. The antibiotic salve stung badly. “You're killing the afterglow,” he complained. “And that tape you're using is going to tear out the few chest hairs I have.”

 

“Hush.” Hannibal finished patching him up. He used the towel to clean Will's come from their bodies, then put his supplies away. He stoo at the side of the bed. “That is going to scar.”

 

Will rolled onto his back and stretched slowly. He felt good, really, pain aside. He _wanted_ that scar; that made all the difference. “I know.”

 

Hannibal turned off the lights and settled under the covers, pulling him close.

 

-

 

_This was really a fucking bad idea_ , Will thought the next morning, after his shower.

 

The left side of his chest looked like something had mauled him. Predictably, removing the gauze and tape had removed some hairs as well and left behind even more irritated skin. Good thing that recently, all of his fucking bad ideas turned out to work for him. He finished towelling off, dabbed some salve on the still oozing marks, and ignored the fresh bandages Hannibal had set out as well as the fresh shirt.

 

Hannibal held out a cup to him when he entered the kitchen. “How do you feel?”

 

“Well-fucked.”

 

“Language.”

 

“You asked.” With a grin, Will hopped up on the counter. “How do _you_ feel?”

 

Hannibal was making something that involved eggs and pieces of meat. “Shaken,” he replied after a quiet moment.

 

“That doesn't sound good.”

 

“Perhaps 'touched' would be a better description. I have never...”

 

“I know.” Will knew the autopsy reports inside out. No bite marks on any of the victims.

 

Hannibal stirred the eggs in the pan. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then, after a glance at Will's lack of shirt, he went to the thermostat by the door and cranked it up.

 

Will inhaled the aroma of the coffee. “Just to be clear...I'm not planning on making that a regular part of sex.”

 

“I would not ask this from you.” Hannibal came to stand between Will's knees. He rubbed his knuckles over the scars on Will's hip and ribs. “You have enough marks already.”

 

“And now I have yours.”

 

“Yes,” Hannibal breathed. He leaned forward and kissed him, slow and sweet, palm resting just under the bite mark. “Thank you for letting me.”

 

Breakfast was served in the dining room. Hannibal draped a blanket over Will's shoulders. Outside, the sky was clear, the sun pale and bright. Frost bloomed on the edges of the window.

 

Will tasted the eggs. “Tell me about Doctor Tobias Bugde.”

 

Hannibal appeared nonplussed. “Tobias? May I inquire how you know him?”

 

“He's the guy I went to because of the,” Will twirled a hand near his brow. “Small world, hm?”

 

“Small indeed. What do you want to know?”

 

“Everything.”

 

“Pleasantly well-mannered. Keen interest in music. Bachelor. He's been a member of the Baltimore Symphony Board for about ten years, and...” Hannibal trailed off, his gaze sharpening. “Will.”

 

Will set down his fork. Took a breath. “The Chesapeake Ripper _must_ be caught.”

 

Hannibal set his silverware down as well.

 

“Sooner or later, the FBI will figure it out. They won't immediately suspect you, but they will look at you just because you're with me, and that's the kind of attention you cannot afford. Raspail's missing bowels? One of the forensic guys made a joke about the Ripper making sausage. That's exactly what you did. Luckily, the agent in charge thought it was a rather tasteless joke. I can't predict when she'll _stop_ thinking it's a joke.” Will ran a hand through his hair, tense. He wasn't sure how Hannibal would react. “I know you won't stop killing. I don't...I'm not going to ask you to stop. But the Ripper needs to be caught, or better yet, he needs to die, or we won't have a future here that doesn't involve surprise weekend visits and constant scrutiny.”

 

Hannibal sat silent and regal. “I see,” he said after a minute. “And Budge?”

 

Will licked his lips. “Cat gut. They used to use cat gut to make string instruments. And Budge plays the violin. I researched him. Five years as a general surgeon at Johns Hopkins before he specialized in neuroscience. He has all the anatomical knowledge the Ripper needs.”

 

Hannibal's brows rose. “You want to set him up.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“For me.”

 

Will dangled the bait. “For _us_. I don't think there will be a _we_ if the Ripper goes on uncaught. Not the kind of we you want.” He stared at his plate. “That I want.”

 

Hannibal was silent for a long time. Finally, he reached over, folding his hand around Will's. “Tell me your plan.”

 

-

 


	16. 16.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* Here we go. Things are winding toward an end.

**16.**

 

“Graham!” Crawford shouted across the busy newsroom.

 

“ _What?_ ” Will roared back.

 

In the graveyard silence that followed, Will reflexively ducked his head, but not quickly enough to miss Crawford's pole–axed expression. Someone whispered, _oh my god_. Beverly, from the sound of the voice.

 

“What?” Will repeated, much quieter.

 

“My office,” Crawford said, also quieter.

 

In the hallway, he took Will by the arm. “Do I get an apology?”

 

Eight weeks since Will had officially quit his affiliation with the FBI. Eight weeks of Baltimore buried under snow and ice, the worst winter in twenty years, putting a dampener on criminal activity. It was too cold for murder. There weren't even burglaries. Having nothing to do was driving Will crazy. It was making him edgy and prone to do stupid things, like yelling at his boss.

 

Then again, sometimes Crawford deserved to be yelled at. “No.”

 

Crawford harrumphed and let go. “Hannibal teaching you that, too?”

 

“What do you mean, 'too'?”

 

“Well, between the suits and the attitude, I'd say either there's some sort of osmosis going on, or someone – and by that I mean you – is going through a mid–life crisis.”

 

The suits hadn't been Hannibal's idea, though he was wholeheartedly supporting it. Contrary to his life–long stance that clothes did not people make, Will had discovered he liked the suits. They were armour. People reacted differently to him, were less prone to bump shoulders, to approach. Here was a fort he did not have to work hard to maintain.

 

They were also a bitch to keep clean of dog hairs, and Will still felt as though he was dressing up instead of putting on clothes in the morning.

 

“Definite improvement, though.” Crawford rubbed the material of Will's lapel between his fingers. “No more sad panda eyes.”

 

Will looked him straight in the eyes. “Good meals and great sex. You should try it.”

 

Crawford pointed a finger at him. “I'll pretend I didn't hear that. If I hear that again, I'll sic my wife on you and help her bury your cold corpse. Now hoof it.”

 

“Do I get to know why?”

 

“You have a visitor. Doctor Bloom.” At Will's tortured expression, Crawford sighed. “Listen, not everyone around here has zero manners. You don't want to deal with them, fine – but don't force others to act as your barriers.”

 

“I quit. What am I supposed to do, leave the country?”

 

“Hey, hey, calm down. I believe you.”

 

“That's not much help.”

 

Crawford stopped them a few steps shy of his office door and lowered his voice. “I had a talk with Donald and a lawyer from the legal department. That FBI agreement isn't worth the paper it's written on.”

 

Hannibal's lawyer, Reba McClane, had told him the same. Short of putting a bullet in his head, there was nothing the FBI could do if he decided to make Matthew's story and his involvement public. Will had been so grateful for the intervention when it happened that he hadn't really thought about it as much as he ought to have; he hadn't put his foot down soon enough.

 

“What about that thing Donald made me sign?”

 

Crawford snorted. “The lawyer laughed when he read it. Donald wasn't amused.”

 

Will eyed Crawford. “You're singing quite the different tune all of a sudden.”

 

“People are finally getting that it wasn't you who asked for the agreement, that it was something the FBI used to hook you with.”

 

“I _let_ them.”

 

“You were compromised. In the hospital because some guy tried to murder you, and you have a long history of...shall we say, not being socially compatible with the rest of the world. They used that to pressure you. Want my advice?”

 

Will nodded.

 

“Go in, see what Doctor Bloom wants. If it's up your alley, go for it. But insist that you get to _use_ it, too.” Crawford smirked. “If they want to exploit you, exploit them back.”

 

“And the _Sun_ will back me up?”

 

Crawford snorted softly. “After your story about the Verger summer camp? You bet. You're the best horse in my stable at the moment and the bosses love you.”

 

The article on Mason Verger had gone public five weeks ago and birthed a storm. Will had pried open the door of an extremely ugly closet; the deeper he dug, the more skeletons he found. The justice department and a Maryland politician – since then arrested – were involved.

 

A day after the story went live, Detective Boyle showed up on Will's doorstep, together with the Maryland state attorney and a bunch of other people from various government departments. Will had handed over his notes and files and let the state attorney grill him for two hours. His research was ironclad, spanning nearly a decade's worth of material.

 

He was glad to be rid of the stuff – the case. It hadn't been easy. Interviewing victims and witnesses of crimes was always hard for him; talking to traumatized children had traumatized _him_. He kept it together until the state attorney and his entourage were gone.

 

Then he unplugged his phone and finally had the minor nervous breakdown he'd been waiting for. He didn't go out for a week, ignored his cellphone and the piles and piles of letters pushed through his mail slot every morning.

 

Hannibal finally pried him out of the house, with a very quiet, very pale Margot Verger acting as his aide. She'd driven the dogs to Mrs. Dutch's. Hannibal stuffed Will into the Bentley and drove him to Baltimore. Slowly, under Hannibal's watchful eye, Will had come out of the state of numbness.

 

Now, five weeks later, most of the news were dominated by the fallout of Will's article, with entire families coming forward, former employees trickling in, the numerous members of the Verger family swearing up and down that they weren't involved, that they hadn't had any idea.

 

Mason Verger was missing, gone before the police could arrest him. Left the country, some speculated. Killed himself, others said.

 

Will didn't care. He'd done his part.

 

Crawford patted him on the shoulder. “Let me know how it goes.”

 

Will hadn't changed his mind about cutting his ties with the FBI. He stepped into the office. Doctor Bloom sat in the chair in front of Crawford's desk. She gave him one of her apologetic smiles. “I figured it would be easier to catch you here, rather than leave you another message you're not going to answer.”

 

“I've been busy.”

 

“I noticed. Congratulations on the Verger article.”

 

“Thank you.” Will took Crawford's chair. “Any luck finding Mason Verger?”

 

“We're working on it. Do you think he's still alive?”

 

“I don't care to speculate about that.”

 

Doctor Bloom nodded, then changed the subject. “I'd like to talk to you about why you quit.”

 

“I don't want to talk about that.”

 

“I'm not here to change your mind. I know a final decision when I see one – or hear about it, in your case. But I think –”

 

“You're not used to this, are you?” Will interrupted her.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“People not opening up to you. It's your job and your passion. You do what you do because you genuinely want to help others, but that requires their participation.” Will swung the chair this way and that, watching her. “I'm not participating. I don't want your help. You have a hard time dealing with that.”

 

She looked taken aback, but only for a moment. Then she laughed. “No one's ever profiled _me_.”

 

“How does it make you feel?”

 

“Naked,” she said, far blunter than Will had anticipated.

 

“Thanks for being honest.”

 

Bloom smirked. “Am I your patient now?”

 

“I'm not yours.” Will decided they'd spent enough time chatting. “If you're not here to change my mind, why are you here?”

 

Doctor Bloom became serious. “I respect your decision to quit working for the FBI. I also promise to curb my professional interest in you, and I will try to keep my analytical ambushes to a minimum.” She paused. “That said, I still think you could do a lot of good work and be a great asset.”

 

Will laid his head back, staring at the ceiling. “In what capacity?”

 

“As my consultant, and only on cases I pick and choose. I'd act as a buffer between the FBI and you. No surprise weekend visits, no calls to your boss. I'm not sure I can stop Freddie Lounds from giving you a hard time, but I'll try no matter what you decide. You'd be dealing only with me from here on out. Agent Purnell has already agreed.”

 

“That's generous of her,” Will said, striving for neutral. “Last time we spoke, I pretty much told her to go fuck herself.”

 

“And she's pretty pissed off at you. Nevertheless, Kade is a professional. She wants the Ripper caught as much as I do and she's not going to let her ego get in the way of that.” Bloom sat forward in the chair, looking at him intensely. “And we're close to catching him. Aren't we?”

 

He glanced at her. Spun the chair, all the way around. “I don't follow.”

 

Doctor Bloom tilted her head. “I think you do. Kade told me you acted strangely when you looked at the body of Benjamin Raspail. You saw something, didn't you? Something out of the ordinary.”

 

He'd seen something, just not what she thought. Will spun the chair again, buying time. Careful, now. This could either play right into his hands or unnecessarily complicate matters.

 

“What did you see, Will?” Doctor Bloom pressed gently.

 

“It sits in the back of my mind and tickles me, but I can't say what it is.”

 

“What caused the tickle?”

 

He had to give her at least a hint. “The careful and surgical removal of Raspail's bowels.”

 

“The Ripper has been taking pieces of his victims all the time,” Bloom said thoughtfully.

 

“Dozens of hearts, livers, lungs, spleens, and whatnot. But never the bowels. And everything he does has meaning. Purpose.” Will shaped the words with his hands. “Metaphors written with flesh and blood. He wouldn't take the bowels if it didn't mean something. I'm not sure what it means. Not yet.”

 

Speculation danced across her face. “And when you're sure...”

 

“Then you'll be the first to know. I'm not exactly anxious to get too close to the Chesapeake Ripper, the way I got close to Matthew Brown. One set of scars is enough for me.”

 

She winced. Then her gaze sharpened. “Does that mean you accept my offer?”

 

“Yes.” He spun the chair one final time. “I do.”

 

–

 

“You are an idiot,” Beverly said flatly.

 

“I know.”

 

“Seriously.”

 

“I _know_.”

 

She paced the narrow landing. It was too cold to go outside to the roof. Will leaned against the banister, hands in his pockets, half his attention on the echoing staircase. One floor down, just barely visible from his vantage point, the emergency door stood open an inch. Will had a decent idea who was listening to his private conversation with Beverly.

 

“I thought it was better to let you know now, rather than drop a bomb on you later.”

 

Beverly made a frustrated sound. “I'm grateful. I also want to smack you. _Seriously_. You're like that Kate Perry song. Hot and cold, yes and no. Yes, I wanna work for the FBI, _ewww_ the FBI is bad.”

 

Will blinked. “Who the what now?”

 

“Forget it.” She stopped pacing. “Why?”

 

“I might need their help soon.”

 

“With what?”

 

“I think I know who the Ripper is.”

 

Beverly stopped mid–pace. “Are you serious?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Have you talked to the police?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because I'm not entirely sure. Not a hundred percent. I need to find out more. It's too soon. I need to get closer.”

 

“Getting up close and personal with _one_ deranged maniac wasn't enough for you?”

 

“If I'm wrong, I could make an innocent man's life hell.”

 

Beverly narrowed her eyes. “You're _never_ wrong about these things. Why're you suddenly so careful?” Will didn't answer. She threw her hands up. “I swear, if this ends with you in the hospital again, I will kick your ass so hard you'll be throwing up my boot.”

 

“I'll be careful, I promise. Keep this to yourself, please.” When she didn't reply, he reached for her hand. “Beverly. Please.”

 

She shook him off. “Yes, for fuck's sake. Yes.” She sighed. “Do you need help? I'm pretty sure mom still has dad's old service revolver.”

 

Will held up both hands. “Whoa there, Miss Katz. A gun? Are you serious?”

 

Flatly, Beverly said, “Dead serious.”

 

“Jesus.” Will ran a hand through his hair. “I don't want to drag you into this.”

 

She leaned against the banister next to him. “I'd feel a lot better if I wasn't always the one left behind to pick up the pieces. It feels like that's all I'm good for, lately.”

 

_Ouch._ Will stared at his feet. “Sorry.”

 

Beverly bumped her shoulder into his, voice softer. “Just think about it, all right? I mean, not just about the gun.”

 

Will nodded. Beverly nudged his shoulder again and left, her steps echoing hollowly in the stairwell. Will watched her go, then checked on their eavesdropper. The emergency door one floor down was closed now.

 

He let out a long, slow breath. It had begun.

 

–

 

An hour before it was time to pack up and leave, Will's cellphone beeped.

 

_Please buy a pound of oranges._

– _H_

 

Zeller walked past and made kissy noises. Will gave him the finger.

 

One and a half hours later, Will left the wholesale food market and found Freddie Lounds sitting on the hood of his car. She was bundled up in a scarlet coat, with a matching scarf and gloves.

 

She didn't get up when he reached his car. “Fancy running into you here.”

 

Will put his purchases away. “What do you want?”

 

Freddie flicked a curl away from her face. “It's time to bury the hatchet, don't you think? How about we go for a coffee and have a little chat?”

 

“How about we cut the crap?” Will pulled his coat closer around himself. It was bitterly cold. “I know you somehow talked Abel Gideon into spying on me. The only reason you're sitting here is because he listened in on a private conversation and heard something he shouldn't have, and then told you about it like a good little lapdog.”

 

She feigned innocence. “I don't even know who this Abel Gideon is.”

 

“Mm. Good delivery, but I'm not buying it.” Will blew into his hands and rubbed them. “How about this, then? Your father, Fred Lounds, works as a reporter for the _Tattler_ , inarguably one of the worst gossip rags ever to go through a printing press and incidentally one of Baltimore's highest selling newspapers, if you want to call that ass wipe a newspaper.”

 

That caught her off–guard. She straightened, sliding off the hood. “You been researching me, Graham?”

 

“Yes. And I noticed something weird. You see, your old man...not a very _good_ reporter, is he? Started out as a cancer editor at a supermarket tabloid, tried to work his way into serious journalism, but he never quite made it, did he? Still writing that same sensationalist, half–baked crap.”

 

The last traces of amusement vanished from Freddie's expression. “Watch what you're saying.”

 

Will smiled at her. “But here's where it gets interesting. Every once in a while, Fred Lounds hits the jackpot, and there's always this little bit of extra in his articles. Information that's not supposed to be public. Information he could only get from a _very_ well–informed source. Like you, for example.”

 

Freddie scoffed. “That's preposterous. I'd never –”

 

“And what's _really_ weird,” Will interrupted, “is that if you go back through Fred's publishing history, an observant person might notice that he started writing these little gems just a year after you received your FBI badge. Coincidence? I think not.”

 

Freddie snorted. “You can't prove any of this.”

 

Will leaned in toward her. “That's what they said about Mason Verger, and look what happened. I'm pretty sure that if I lined up your father's articles with the cases you worked on over the last eight years, there'd be a couple of matches. Enough to make a lot of people very suspicious about a possible leak in the FBI.”

 

She didn't budge. Coldly, she stared at him. “You're an ass, Graham.”

 

“I'm just levelling the playing field. You're a good pitcher, Freddie. How good are you at catching? Because I'm prepared to throw you a few hard balls.”

 

Her chin went up. “If I don't back off, you mean.”

 

Will opened the driver's door. “That would be blackmail, and I'm not a criminal. I'm just telling what happens if I find an interest in people, and right now, you're near the top of that list, right after the Ripper.”

 

She hooked a hand around the edge of the door, keeping him from shutting it. “You know who the Ripper is. You're deliberately keeping vital information to yourself. That's obstruction of justice.”

 

“I told my friend, in a private conversation, that _think_ I know who it is. I also told my friend that I am not entirely sure. And just a few hours ago, I told Doctor Bloom that the minute I'm _sure_ , she'll be the first to know.” He started the car. “If you'd like to explain to your superiors how exactly you came by the contents of said private conversation, feel free to bring me in. Just be advised that my first phone call isn't going to be to my lawyer. It's going to be to my boss to get the printing presses rolling.”

 

He had her. He could see it in the narrowed eyes, the tight pinch of her mouth. She haggled with herself for ten seconds, then slammed the door shut and stalked off. Once her slim figure had disappeared between the other parked cars, Will sat still for a moment, basking in that unfamiliar sensation of for once coming out on top of a situation.

 

–

 

Will dropped his keys in the porcelain bowl by the door and toed off his shoes. The whole house smelled off cookies and cinnamon. Music was playing, for once something a little more contemporary than Hannibal's usual fare of classical and orchestral – jazz, mellow and evoking memories of the south.

 

He followed the _other_ music to the kitchen. Hannibal stood at the counter, beating meat with a silver hammer.

 

“It's already dead.” Will put the oranges on the sink. “No need to keep torturing it.”

 

“And yet I am doing it. Why?”

 

“It tenderizes the meat.”

 

Hannibal nodded approvingly and leaned over to greet Will with a proper kiss. “How was your day?”

 

“Uneventful, not counting Doctor Bloom's attempt to recruit me once more.”

 

“Was she successful?”

 

“In a manner of speaking. I'm giving this one last try.”

 

Hannibal smiled with one corner of his mouth only. “The temptation is too great, isn't it?”

 

Will washed his hands and put on an apron. He'd felt silly at first, wearing one, until he spent an hour washing a stain out of a pair of pants. “She seemed honest, and the deal she proposed would put her between me and the FBI. I like the idea of having a buffer.”

 

Hannibal inspected the edge of a kitchen knife. “I want to meet her.”

 

“You already did.”

 

“In a proper setting. Dinner.”

 

“Maybe. Yes.” Having someone like Doctor Bloom firmly on his – their – side could be a benefit, as long as Will had a hand in determining how far it went. He unpacked the oranges. “Do you need these now?”

 

“Put them in the pantry, please. And bring the wine, darling. The Cabernet.”

 

Fighting a silly grin, Will went into the pantry. _Darling_. He liked it when Hannibal called him that. It was cliché and a bit weird and made Will feel like a teenager, not an adult heading fast for forty.

 

He opened the wine and joined Hannibal at the counter, watching him cut the meat into narrow stripes and laying them in the sizzling fat in the pan. There were tomatoes to wash and quarter, so Will applied himself to that. Cooking lessons were dispensed during meal preparations; Hannibal believed in learning by doing. Will enjoyed that more than he'd thought he would, both the act and the learning.

 

It was satisfying to eat a meal he had prepared with his own hands.

 

He could see the appeal of cooking for others – of sharing the work of his hands with guests.

 

But ultimately it was the intimacy that tethered him, apron and all, to the generously sized kitchen island with its two stoves and plenty of work space to tend to fresh vegetables, meats, and all those thousands of ingredients that coalesced, with much coaxing and careful measuring, into a delectable whole.

 

Hip to hip, watching over the pans and pots. Careful, well–timed, guiding touches, little spoons held up to Will's lips to taste, the pride Hannibal took from passing on the art –

 

“Darling,” Hannibal would say, “you're a natural.”

 

Will was missing this now, when he was alone in his house in Wolf Trap. He caught himself looking up recipes for dog food, single meals, food markets. Slippery slopes be damned. He wanted it every day, all the time.

 

The doorbell rang.

 

Hannibal frowned at his watch. “He's twenty minutes early.”

 

“The streets are pure ice. He probably left early so he wouldn't be late.”

 

“Arriving too early is just as impolite as arriving too late.”

 

Will went to answer the door. He suspected Budge was early for other reasons entirely. The man had barely been able to contain his enthusiasm when Will extended the dinner invitation to him during his last check–up at the care centre.

 

Narrow field of interest. Long hours at work. Limited social circle. It was stunning how similar Budge and Will were – the marked difference being that Budge was eager to make contact with the world, whereas Will would have been perfectly content to continue his solitary existence if Hannibal hadn't happened.

 

Will opened the door. “Hello. Please, come in.”

 

Budge wore a camel hair coat and carried a bottle–shaped package. “Thank you, Mister Graham.”

 

“Call me Will. I'd say we're past the formalities.”

 

Budge smiled broadly and handed over his coat. “Then please call me Tobias. I'm sorry I'm so early. I hope it isn't inconvenient.”

 

“We're just about done, don't worry about it. This way.”

 

Hannibal was cleaning up their work space when they arrived in the kitchen. “Tobias. A pleasure to finally have you here.” He unwrapped the bottle – wine, predictable. “Lovely choice. Please, follow me. I've something I'd love you to listen to. Will, could you...”

 

Will opened a random drawer. “I'll finish up here. Go on. I'll join you in a few minutes.”

 

As soon as they were gone, he was back by the front door. Budge wore a suit, and his pockets hadn't shown any unseemly bulges, only the outline of a wallet. Will found what he was looking for in a pocket of Budge's coat: a slim, soft leather key case. In it, two silver keys and a bulkier black one bearing the Mercedes Benz logo.

 

Will worked quickly. He hadn't even had to look this stuff up – knew better than to look this up where it could leave an internet trace. The Elkridge Stalker had gained access to his young victims' houses using copies of keys he'd acquired with a simple block of play–doh. Will was using sculpting dough, leftovers from one of Hannibal's hobbies.

 

He hid the block of dough in the fridge, behind the beer bottles and the butter. The Cabernet, already decanted and breathing, three glasses, and he was on his way to the study.

 

Budge sat in a chair in the very middle of the spacious room, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. The music, dark, sonorous and melancholic, climbed toward a subtle crescendo and petered out on a gentler note, hopeful, a soloist's master performance.

 

Hannibal, on the couch, lifted a subtle eyebrow. Will nodded.

 

“Beautiful,” Budge breathed when the last notes faded.

 

Hannibal smiled indulgently. “Isn't it?”

 

Budge sighed. “Yes. However did you find this recording?”

 

Will busied himself with the wine while they talked. He found Budge's emotionality embarrassing to watch – but even harder to endure was the overt covetousness, the eagerness. He wondered if Hannibal noticed it – no, Hannibal was definitely noticing it, was basking in it.

 

Sting of jealousy.

 

Not for much longer. Will hadn't picked Budge _randomly_.

 

–

 

Midnight. Will stacked the plates while Hannibal saw Budge to the door. Budge had been full of praise for the taste of the wine, the tender meat, the crisp salad. They'd talked mostly about music during dinner, which meant Will contributed very little to the conversation.

 

A pair of arms slipped around him from behind, Hannibal's mouth descending on the side of his neck. “I do not like that man,” Hannibal muttered.

 

“He likes you a lot. He wants to be your friend.”

 

“I don't want to be his.”

 

Will picked up Budge's wine glass and held it up to the light. The residue of the mild sedative was only just beginning to show on the rim. Not enough to put him to sleep on the way home, but enough to make sure he slept soundly once he went to bed.

 

“Sitting at your table is a badge of honour you denied him for years.” Will wiped off the residue with Budge's napkin. “He's very happy now.”

 

Hannibal nipped at skin. “Are you? You were quiet.”

 

“Classic music isn't exactly a topic I have a lot to say about.”

 

Hannibal was quiet for a moment. His arms tightened subtly. “What _aren't_ you telling me?”

 

Will patted the hands folded over his belly. “You'll see.”

 

–

 

 


	17. 17.

**17.**

 

“Doctor Tobias Budge.”

 

Doctor Bloom looked perplex, then blank, then worried.

 

Will gauged her reaction. “You know him.”

 

“I know he treated you for encephalitis.”

 

Will sighed. Of course she knew that. “What I meant is, you know him personally.”

 

She sat down. “I do. Not very well. He was at Johns Hopkins during my residency. My god.”

 

Will gave her time to let the revelation sink in and wandered through her office. He liked the way it was set up – no couch, tall windows, warm, friendly colours. Hundreds of books on a variety of subjects and a few interesting paintings in tasteful frames. It was a far cry from the shrink's office in New Orleans, that small, cramped space smelling of stale cigarette smoke and tears.

 

Still, he was looking forward to get out. He circled back around to her desk. “All right?”

 

“No,” Doctor Bloom said. She put her fingertips to her temples and massaged. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tell me why you're sure.”

 

Will clasped his hands behind his back. “The bowels.”

 

“Benjamin Raspail's bowels.”

 

“Budge co-owns a music store specialized in string instruments here in Baltimore, where he spends the time he isn't spending at the opera or digging around in someone's brain. They do repairs. Re-stringing violins and the like. They have their own website.”

 

She blanched. “ _Please_ tell me it's not what I'm thinking.”

 

“There might be even more Ripper victims than we thought.” Will licked his lips. “I'd take a good, long look at those instruments, if I were you.”

 

Doctor Bloom was already reaching for the telephone.

 

Will took a seat, listening to her setting the gears of the FBI in motion. What Doctor Bloom did not know was that at this very moment, someone was making a phone call to Tobias Budge, using a disposable cellphone.

 

The message was simple: _They know_.

 

-

 

Will went to work.

 

The bomb hit mid-afternoon. Doctor Tobias Budge, also known as the Chesapeake Ripper, escaped the armada of FBI agents and the Baltimore SWAT teams descending on his private residence, the music store he co-owned, and his place of work simultaneously.

 

Everyone in the newsroom was glued to the big TV screens. Will remained at his desk, turning his cellphone around and around. He'd gotten four messages in the last five minutes, from Doctor Bloom, Detective Boyle, Agent Purnell, and Hannibal.

 

Crawford sat on the edge of Will's desk, arms crossed over his chest and a glower on his face. “Wonderful. Just wonderful.” A news anchor live at Budge's house in Rosedale was quoting an anonymous police officer stating that it looked like Budge had left in a hurry. “You serve them the Ripper on a silver platter and they fuck it up.”

 

Beverly sat on the other side of Will's desk. “What're you gonna do now?”

 

“I'm just going to go home.”

 

“Are you nuts? What if he comes after you?”

 

“He'd be an idiot if he stayed in the area,” Crawford interjected.

 

Beverly scowled. “Wolf Trap isn't in the area.”

 

Will groaned and rubbed his eyes. “I'm not going to Wolf Trap. I'm meeting Hannibal tonight.”

 

“Great! Put _both_ of you in danger!”

 

Someone hissed at them to be quiet. On TV, city coroners were carrying stretchers out of Budge's house, accompanied by suited-up members of the FBI's forensic team. Will recognized Doctor Chilton in the background, making expansive gestures.

 

Beverly leaned in. “Will, I'm really worried. Be careful. Please.”

 

Will barely heard her. Up until the last minute when the reports started pouring in and his cellphone started beeping, he'd felt as if someone was standing behind him with their hands around his neck, slowly strangling him. Now that he knew that his plan had worked, that invisible pressure was gone.

 

With the additional evidence Hannibal had planted in Budge's house and the music store the night after their dinner, no one could draw any conclusion other than that Budge was the Ripper. If they caught him, it wouldn't matter how loudly he screamed his innocence. He fit the Ripper's official profile better than the actual Ripper. Purnell would bury Budge for the rest of his natural life and a thousand years more, if some trigger-happy cop didn't get to him first.

 

Will was free.

 

After the initial excitement died down and people started returning to their work stations, Abel Gideon strolled up to Will's desk. “Congratulations, Graham. Another one down.”

 

Will smiled thinly. “Be sure to tell Agent Lounds how glad I am that the _real_ Ripper has finally been identified.”

 

Gideon shrugged. “She hooked me, I admit it. It would've been too sweet – Will Graham, Baltimore's own Sherlock Holmes...” He made a dramatic gesture. “The Ripper. You know I can't resist a good story. And it would've been a damn good story.”

 

Will considered his options. “I have another story for you. Maybe a little out of your usual hunting grounds, but we all have to try new waters sometimes. Interested?”

 

Gideon shrugged again. “Always.”

 

“Lounds is leaking classified FBI information to her old man at the _Tattler_. Think you can work with that?”

 

The smile spreading on Gideon's lips was malicious and pleased. “Oh boy, can I work with that.” He considered Will through narrowed eyes. “Why so generous?”

 

“I know what it's like to be used. Just don't get the wrong idea – I hate your guts for spying on me. I'll consider us even after you lit a fire under Lounds' ass.” Will leaned back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Go dig her grave, Abel. You have my blessings.”

 

Gideon walked to his desk with a little spring in his step. Beverly, sole silent spectator to the conversation, eyed Will with raised eyebrows. “You are _evil_.”

 

Will bit down on a grin.

 

-

 

Chandler Square lay silent under a layer of snow. With the early dark of winter, the big houses and their well-kept front yards were perfect postcard material. Will stood at the yard gate to Hannibal's, hands in his pockets. It wasn't so bad an area. Quiet, for all that it was very close to Baltimore's busiest centres.

 

The dogs would hate it. They were used to running around freely on open land.

 

He sighed and trudged up the garden path to the front door. _Getting ahead of yourself there, Graham_. He hadn't even brought up the topic of a shared home with Hannibal yet.

 

He noticed a set of footprints ending on the welcome mat. Larger than Hannibal's.

 

Fresh.

 

Will stopped on the first step, thoughts of future relocations and plans fading from his mind. Suddenly, it was _too_ quiet, as if the world was holding its breath.

 

The front door was only leaned shut. With tented fingers, Will pushed it open and stepped into the hallway. Hannibal's coat was there, his gloves and scarf a neat stack on the shoe commode, his house and car keys in the porcelain bowl.

 

Wet footprints on the carpet. Sepulchral silence yawned from the dark recesses further in.

 

Will felt for the phone in his pocket, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He slid off his coat and cautiously moved further into the house. Even before he saw the chaos in the foyer, indicating there had been a fight, he knew Hannibal wasn't alone.

 

What he didn't know was if Hannibal was still alive. “Hannibal?”

 

A muffled, thudding sound answered his shout. Will followed the noise, stepping over a jumble of books and little knick-knacks on the floor, a trail leading him to the kitchen door. There, he hesitated for only a moment. Calling the police never entered his mind. He had a good idea who was waiting for him in the heart of Hannibal's house.

 

He opened the door.

 

Budge was a different man now: no more the mild-mannered specialist who had treated Will's encephalitis. Experiencing the crash and burn of his world had left him wild-eyed, furious and nervous, an animal backed into the corner. He glowered at Will, watching his slow entry with a sneer, and brandished the large kitchen knife he was holding.

 

“Hello, Tobias,” Will said, turning his attention to the other occupant of the kitchen. Hannibal sat in a dining room chair, arms pulled back behind his back. His ankles were tied to the chair's legs with cable binders. A thin, dark bruise circled his throat, the surrounding tissue already turning purple, and his chin and lips were red with blood.

 

Will's and Hannibal's eyes met. There was no fear in Hannibal's gaze, only an anticipatory gleam and a faint hint of amusement.

 

He'd _let_ himself be caught. Just put up enough of a fight to make it look real. Will resisted rolling his eyes heavenward, and slowly spread his arms to show he was unarmed.

 

Budge's smile was just a baring of teeth. “It was you, wasn't it? You set the police on my trail.”

 

“Yes.”

 

Budge nodded. “I should have killed you the moment you walked into my office. So much can go wrong with the brain. No one would have suspected anything.”

 

Will reached the kitchen island separating him from Budge and his precious hostage. “Instead, you decided to use me. You've been trying to get close to Hannibal for years, but he never let you, did he? What better opportunity than to be the one saving poor Will Graham from encephalitis?” He put on a smile. “And when we invited you to dinner, you thought your plan had worked.”

 

Hannibal heaved a little sigh. “I appear to be highly in demand these days.”

 

Budge backhanded him, then held the knife to Hannibal's throat, making a warning noise when Will instinctively moved to get to the other side of the kitchen island.

 

Will stopped. “Give up, Tobias. How do you think this is going to end?”

 

Budge's tone of voice was pure venom. “I'll kill you both. That's a good end.”

 

“And then? Half the country is looking for you. You'll never make it out of Baltimore.”

 

“Don't care,” Budge muttered. “Don't care how it ends as long as _you_ end.”

 

He gave Hannibal a hard shove. The chair fell over, Hannibal landing with a soft grunt on his side. Making use of Will's second of distraction, Budge came at him with a wide swing of the knife. Steel whispered across Will's chest, leaving behind a trail of wetness and an icy burn.

 

He reared back. Grabbed something – the wooden cutting board – and caught Budge across the face, wood and skin meeting with a loud smack.

 

“I believe,” Hannibal said from his position on the floor, “that this is what they call a bitch slap.”

 

Budge roared something wordless and hoarse, full of wounded pride and anger. Will brought the board down a second time, aiming for Budge's wrist, but the swing missed. Only a wild flail backward saved him from being skewered on a knife the second time this year.

 

Budge charged at him. They collided with the wall, grappled there for a second. Will managed to get his mouth to Budge's wrist, and he bit down as hard as he could, through skin, tendon and flesh. Budge screamed, dropping the knife. Will got a hand around Budge's neck and yanked, snapped his teeth inches from a dark cheek as the other man pushed against him to separate them.

 

This time, Will took the step from attacked to attacker consciously. Willingly. _Happily_.

 

He'd never felt so alive. It was beautiful.

 

And over before Will could wholly enjoy it.

 

To Will's right, the doorway suddenly framed another person. Beverly Katz stepped into Hannibal's kitchen, lifting a gun. She fired a single shot. Budge's head jerked to the side, the right side of his head evaporating in a chunky spray of bone, flesh and grey matter.

 

Over the clatter of Budge's body hitting the floor, Will heard Beverly's panicky shout.

 

“I told you to be careful!”

 

-

 

The cavalry arrived in record time.

 

Will barely had the time to untie Hannibal before the clomp of heavy boots announced the arrival of a Baltimore SWAT team, and suddenly they were all there, in Hannibal's kitchen: Detective Boyle, Doctor Bloom, Agent Purnell, Baltimore PD officers, white-clad forensic investigators.

 

Beverly handed the gun over to a uniform. Will went to her. This, he hadn't expected. He'd never meant for her to become involved. He'd never wanted to see that look on her face, somewhere between panic and anger and a thousand-yard-stare.

 

He put a hand on her arm. Wordless, Beverly hid her face against his shoulder. Awkwardly, Will put his arms around her, holding on while SWAT circled Budge's corpse with their machine guns pointed at the floor and their trigger fingers tense, as if the man could somehow come back to life with half his head gone and most of his brain smeared over the floorboards.

 

Purnell veered in Will's direction. She made no comment, only sighed, looking as if she'd aged twenty years since he'd last seen her. In the other corner of the kitchen, Hannibal was talking to Doctor Bloom and Detective Boyle, while a medic was dabbing at his throat with cotton balls.

 

Beverly lifted her head. Her eyes were dry. “Are you okay?”

 

Will exhaled a shudder. “Christ, Bev. Am _I_ okay? How the hell -”

 

“I followed you. I _know_ you. I had a feeling...” She glanced at Budge's corpse, looked away. “I called the cops and waited, but then I heard the fighting, and...well.”

 

Purnell injected herself into the conversation. “Miss Katz, is it? You'll have to come with us.”

 

Will made an angry noise of protest. “Oh, come _on_ , Purnell. It's clear -”

 

Purnell interrupted him. “It's not an arrest. It's a mere formality. You stopped a very dangerous individual from doing more harm than he already has. Congratulations, Miss Katz.”

 

“Yeah,” Beverly mumbled, “lucky me.”

 

She followed Purnell before Will could get another word in. He retreated into the dining room, out of the way of Chilton and his team getting ready to go over every inch of the kitchen. He was tense, still geared up to fight, at a loss now that things had taken an unexpected turn.

 

Hannibal intercepted him on his third restless circle around the dining room table. He sported a bandage around his neck and a couple of butterfly strips on his face. “We'll have to leave the house until the FBI have finished their investigation. I'll book us a hotel room, if you don't mind.”

 

Will crossed his arms, uncrossed them, crossed them again, gripping his biceps. “Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

 

Hannibal reached for Will's hand, prying his fingers loose. At first, Will resisted the gentle, insistent pull. He was inexplicably angry, at Hannibal, at himself. Then he allowed himself to be held. Hannibal stroked his back, his hair. He lowered his mouth to Will's ear. “I wanted to watch.”

 

Will closed his eyes. “I know.” Fingers hooking into Hannibal's shirt, he took in the familiar scent, now coppery, sharp with sweat. “It's not Beverly's fault.”

 

“Count yourself lucky to have friends such as her. They are hard to come by.”

 

Will held on more tightly. It was the worst time to ask, but he wanted, needed to know. “I want – do you want to move in together?”

 

Hannibal kissed the side of his neck. “I thought you'd never ask.”

 

-

 

It was three hours before they were allowed to leave. Will spent half an hour on the phone with Crawford, explaining the situation, and then half an hour with Chilton and his team, letting their finds corroborate the official story – that Beverly had followed Will due to a hunch, that she'd called the police, that she'd then heard the fighting and decided to intervene, using her father's old service gun.

 

Then he listened to Hannibal narrating how Budge, in the early afternoon, had rung the bell and brute-forced his way into the house. There'd been a fight. Budge used some sort of wire to strangle Hannibal – forensics discovered the home-made garotte in the chaos in the foyer – until he blacked out. When he regained consciousness, Budge had tied him to a chair.

 

“He wanted me to watch Will die.” Hannibal took Will's hand. “Luckily, Miss Katz intervened.”

 

Will turned to Doctor Bloom. “What's going to happen to her?”

 

“Nothing. As Kade said, taking her in as a formality. There's no doubt about what happened here, and no one is going to prosecute her for shooting a crazed serial killer.”

 

Will sighed deeply. “So it's over. The Chesapeake Ripper is dead.”

 

“There is one thing.” Doctor Bloom looked worried. “We checked Budge's phone records. He had a call this morning, while you and I were talking, and according to his neighbours he left home in a hurry right around the time of that call.”

 

Will put on a frown. “You think someone warned him.”

 

Doctor Bloom nodded. “The call was made from a disposable cellphone. Triangulation puts the location of the caller in the vicinity of Quantico.”

 

Hannibal lifted an eyebrow. “How accurate is this triangulation process?”

 

Chilton, still in his white plastic overall, joined in. “Not very, and you can take your pick if that's unfortunate or a blessing, in this case. Even just the thought of this maniac having someone in the FBI...”

 

Hannibal put an arm around Will. “Should we be worried?”

 

Doctor Bloom and Doctor Chilton looked at Will. “No,” he said after a moment. “Whoever warned Budge is long gone. If it is someone in the FBI, I doubt you'll ever find out who. Right now, they're erasing all traces connecting them. They could've been just friends. It could be something as simple as overhearing Budge's named and then calling him up out of curiosity or concern. The Chesapeake Ripper worked alone. And he's dead.”

 

Doctor Bloom didn't look wholly convinced, but since the person who had made said call was holding Will in a loose embrace at the moment, she'd never know better.

 

-

 

Hannibal booked them into a luxury hotel in the middle of Baltimore. He inspected the top floor suite's amenities while Will sat on the plush couch, glued to his cellphone, hoping to get a message from Beverly.

 

Hannibal plucked the device out of his hands and set it on the mantle of the fireplace, together with his own. “Have a little faith. Miss Katz was brave enough to go after what she assumed was a dangerous criminal. She'll be all right.”

 

Will leaned back. “And you? Your alter ego is dead.”

 

“The Chesapeake Ripper wasn't my alter ego. I did not give myself that name – the newspapers did.”

 

“Doesn't matter who coined it. You can never kill like that again, or this whole set-up with Budge was for naught.”

 

Hannibal stared into the flickering flames. “I know. And I believe it is time to let the Ripper rest.”

 

“ _Can_ you let him rest?”

 

“Posing the bodies satisfied nothing more than the aesthete in me. I will find other ways to appease that fickle beast.”

 

“Are you still pissed at me?”

 

Hannibal had been...not angry, but not amused either, coming back from his nightly trip to Budge's residence and music store. Up until the moment he saw him return with a sour expression, Will hadn't been entirely sure if Hannibal was truly unaware of Budge's true nature. Hannibal was so good at finding out the dark abysses in the souls of those who surrounded him, but maybe, like Will, he sometimes consciously ignored the monsters nibbling gently at his throat.

 

Or courted them, keeping their secrets safe.

 

He turned from the fire, giving Will a small smirk. “I'll not say no to attempts of reparation.”

 

Will knew that tone of voice by now. He smirked back. “What do you have in mind?”

 

Hannibal slipped his fingers into Will's hair, his smile widening. “You'll see.”

 

They fucked on thousand-dollar sheets, Baltimore's night lights pin-striping their bodies. Will straddled Hannibal's hips and took what he wanted, working for a different sort of climax than the one Beverly had, well-meaning and brave, robbed them off. Hannibal slipped his thumb into Will's gasping mouth, grinning sharply at the threat of teeth. He rolled his hips up, hewing pleasure into Will's centre.

 

Sticky and sated, they lay together in the dark. Will rubbed his stubble over the dense hair on Hannibal's chest. “There'll be others.”

 

Hannibal hummed sleepily. “Of course there will be others.”

 

-

 

 


	18. 18.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done. Thanks to everyone who commented, left kudos and bookmarked!

**18\. Epilogue ( Year One and counting )**

 

The last guests arrived, a procession of cars along the meandering, tree-lined road leading up to the house surrounded by evergreens. Will stood on the porch, watching them. Next to him, tongue lolling and tail thumping, Winston whined softly and yawned.

 

“Best behaviour,” Will reminded sternly.

 

Beverly was the first out of her car and up the short flight of stairs. She threw her arms around Will, then held him at arm's length. “You owe me. I hate these kinds of parties, so you owe me. I expect copious amounts of coffee and doughnuts on Monday, from that little store on Parks.”

 

Will laughed. “I'm glad you came. It's you and me against Hannibal's world.”

 

She wagged a finger at him. “I'm here as moral support only. The minute someone asks me to dance or tries to discuss politics with me, I'm gone.”

 

She went inside, leaving him to greet the other guests. Crawford made approving noises at the house, while his wife Phyllis took an immediate liking to Winston's friendly advances.

 

After them came Doctor Bloom. “Kade sends her regards. Thanks again for the help with the mushroom guy.”

 

“You caught him?”

 

“Last night, with a victim in the trunk of his car. You were right. He did work as a pharmacist.”

 

Satisfied, Will ushered her in, then greeted the last arrival. Margot had stopped working for Hannibal a while ago, when her financial situation stabilized. Hannibal's lawyer, Reba McClane, had readily taken on the young woman's cause and helped her navigate the court battle over the Verger fortune.

 

Although a sizeable portion of the money had gone to the Southern Baptist Church in the end, Margot would likely never have to work again, if she was smart. She was a regular at _Mischa's_ now, sometimes sitting with Will at his corner table, sometimes by herself, sometimes in the company of other women.

 

She stepped close to Will. “Who was that?”

 

“Doctor Alana Bloom. Should I ask Hannibal to change the seating arrangement?”

 

Margot chuckled. “Would the good doctor mind terribly to have me next to her?”

 

“Are you willing to find out?”

 

Margot nodded, smiling impishly. Amused, Will lead her to the door. “Go tell Hannibal, he'll be delighted. I'll just be a moment.”

 

He went to check on his dogs, Winston at his heels. His pack had settled in nicely in the three months since the move. Hannibal had to bury his plans of flowerbeds and lawn ornaments, but he was secretly, Will thought, rather pleased; the house was old, with small turrets and ivy-covered walls. The whole place had a bewitching, wild beauty he'd been surprised to find this close to Baltimore. A manicured yard would have looked very odd.

 

Sometimes, Will missed his house in Wolf Trap. It was still in his possession, and there were tentative plans to use it as a secondary home during the summer or whenever they craved a change of scenery. This house had been a compromise between Will's need for wide open spaces and the distance to their respective places of work.

 

He went inside, through the foyer with its hand-crafted skull mosaic on the floor and vaulted, painted ceiling. Several of Hannibal's acquaintances from the Baltimore Symphony Board stood by the grand bookcase. Will nodded at them in passing.

 

Hannibal's attempt to introduce him to Baltimore's elite had been more or less a success in so far that Will was only going to dip his toe that deeply into those shark-infested waters. Friendly visits, spaced adequately far apart, were as much as he was willing to endure.

 

He checked the dining room, where Franklyn stood by the long, gleaming table, arranging to the best effect the giant cheese platter he'd brought. Bedelia, predictably, had gravitated to the corner with the expensive bottles. She greeted Will with a cool nod.

 

Will did not like her. She didn't like him. Not inviting her, however, would have been rude.

 

He moved on. More of Hannibal's friends in the living room, bathed in golden late afternoon light. The patio doors were open, letting in a fresh breeze. Doctor Bloom and Margot stood with the Crawfords. Margot caught Will's eye as he passed, and gave him a tiny, hopeful smile and a discreet toast.

 

He arrived, at last, in the kitchen. It was twice as large as the one in Hannibal's Chandler Square residence. The floor was black stone, dully gleaming under halogen lights. Even after Hannibal installed the fourth stove, there'd been enough room to set up a table in the corner. They often ate here now instead of the dining room, with the scent of cooked meat and spices perfuming the air.

 

Hannibal stood out amid the white-clad helpers they'd hired for the occasion. Black shirt, black slacks, blood-red tie – Will gravitated toward him, moth to light. The helpers knew better than to roll their eyes or sneer at the sight of two men kissing.

 

“All set?” Will asked. “Everyone's hungry.”

 

“Patience is a virtue,” Hannibal admonished. “But, the feast is almost ready.”

 

“Do you need anything?”

 

Hannibal eyed the tableau spread out over the counters, the helping hands slicing ginger, tomatoes, lemons, mincing herbs, whisking cream, filling small porcelain bowls with the first course, a sour and spicy soup. “Some mushrooms, for the salad. And another pack of ice.”

 

The entry to the cellar was behind a door in the back of the kitchen. Will switched on the light and descended a broad, clean set of steps, ducking his head to avoid collision with an arched doorway.

 

He took a key from a well-hidden spot between the wine racks and beer barrels. The door it opened was hard to find unless you knew where to look, and solid steel three inches thick. It protected a clinically white room, tiled floor to ceiling for easier clean-up, soundproof. Both Will and Hannibal prefered dimmed lights, but down here they were bright and unforgiving, glinting off the bone saw, the butcher's hooks, the meat grinders.

 

In the middle of the room, gagged and strapped to an old-fashioned autopsy table, lay a man.

 

“Hi, Mason,” Will said.

 

Mason Verger couldn't answer. Aside from the large ball-gag keeping his utterances to a minimum, he was currently drugged to senselessness. Drool ran down his chin and cheeks. His blue eyes stared vacantly at the low ceiling, blinking slowly.

 

Will checked on Mason's bindings and the IVs feeding him nutrients, taking a moment to critically assess him. This wasn't the man they had snatched from Muskrat Farm, the Verger residence in Maryland, all those months ago, the day before Will's article went live.

 

This was meat. That it was still breathing was only due to Will's belief that a quick death was too good for the likes of Mason Verger. Hannibal had put up no argument.

 

Will leaned over the prone man, whispering. Mason had no ears left, and he had developed an acute sensitivity to loud sounds. “Your sister is here. She'll be dining with us tonight.”

 

Mason blubbered something. He was too far gone to make sense of the words. Later, when the guests were gone and the drugs had worn off, he would understand.

 

Will collected ice from one of the tall freezers, locked the door, hid the key, and picked up a basket of mushrooms on his way back up.

 

-

 

The dining room table was large, a hand-crafted monstrosity. Hannibal and Will sat side by side at the head of the table. The guests were digging in, smacking lips and discreet moans of pleasure conveying their appreciation for the feast better than words of praise.

 

Will took great satisfaction from watching Margot swallow pieces of her brother. Next to her, Doctor Bloom watched Margot with a different kind of focus.

 

Hannibal leaned in. “I see the beginning of something beautiful.”

 

Will took a sip of wine. “So do I.”

 

Under the table, Hannibal ran a hand up the inside of Will's leg, cupping him for a gentle squeeze. Thinking about the remote control in Hannibal's pocket, Will hoped the guests would take the flush of his cheeks for a result of the wine.

 

Crawford knocked his foot against Will's. “So how's that book coming along?”

 

“It comes.” Will cleared his throat. “I'm still sorting. Thankfully,” he raised his glass to Doctor Bloom, “the FBI has allowed me to use some of the material they've accumulated over the years.”

 

Doctor Bloom toasted him back. “I can't think of anyone better suited to write about him. You caught the Ripper.”

 

Beverly, to Hannibal's right, lowered her gaze to her plate. That it was her who had ultimately caught the Ripper – with a well-aimed bullet – was something she hated when it was brought up in conversation. Will knew she'd gone to therapy for a while, but the last time he'd mentioned it, she'd made choice comments about 'those fucking shrinks' and 'it's _my_ goddamn head, not theirs'.

 

Luckily, one of Hannibal's acquaintances, an elderly woman, changed the subject. “What about that FBI agent? Wasn't she involved in that gruesome business, as well? I must say, I'm appalled. I do hope disciplinary action will be taken.”

 

“We're dealing with that,” Doctor Bloom said diplomatically, with a glance at Will.

 

Will pretended he didn't notice. Abel Gideon's article about Freddie Lounds had hit in the wake of the media storm following the death of Tobias Budge. Doctor Bloom, these days Will's only link to the FBI, never outright asked if Will had anything to do with it – it was a sort of don't ask, don't tell they mutually and silently agreed on.

 

Last he'd heard, Fred Lounds had been fired from the _Tattler_. Freddie Lounds still had her badge at the moment, but by his estimate, not for much longer. Gideon, always thorough, had uncovered that Will wasn't the only one she'd overstepped professional bounds with.

 

Will had vague plans, half-formed ideas for Freddie Lounds. Not out of revenge – precaution. He knew she would attempt to get even; he'd already seen her black Jeep in the area, parked down the street at the food market.

 

He was ready for her. He had all the time in the world.

 

-

 

Hannibal saw the last guests to the door. In the kitchen, Mason Verger's thigh bone shone white under the halogen lights. Hip to the counter, Will leafed through the file Doctor Bloom, with an apologetic smile, had given him before leaving shoulder to shoulder with Margot.

 

Hannibal came into the kitchen. “Anything interesting?”

 

“Home invasion. He smashed all the mirrors in the house and then used the shards to decorate the corpses of the family.”

 

Hannibal poured two glasses of wine. “Self-esteem issues, I'd say.”

 

“Loads.” Will put the file down. “Doctor Bloom is slipping. She's giving me more and more cases, and this one's out of state. Is she getting lazy?”

 

“She knows you're good.”

 

“She knows nothing about me.”

 

Hannibal smiled against the rim of his glass. “And may she forever be blind.” He held a hand out. “Come. One last dance before bed.”

 

Will groaned good-naturedly as he followed. There'd already been dancing after dinner. Mrs. Komeda, that dried-out old witch from the Symphony Board, had unabashedly commented on his 'youthful virility' while they danced to Bach.

 

Hannibal guided him into the foyer. Different music was playing now, darker, the slow breath of the world before sunrise – one of Hannibal's own creations, recorded. Their dress shoes clacked on the polished floor, following the outline of the skull mosaic in precise circles.

 

Will leaned up, and cheek to cheek they turned while from the kitchen, through the open cellar door and the door further down, came the unintelligible screams of Mason Verger awakening from his drugged haze and finding himself short a few limbs.

 

Before, Will might have found the clash of melodies dissonant. Now, they perfected each other.

 

Hannibal dropped a hand into his pocket. Will braced himself – he'd been anticipating with equal parts dread and greed all evening that Hannibal would make good on that long-ago suggestion of sweet torment.

 

“Later,” Hannibal murmured, lips against Will's brow. “First, this.”

 

Will stared down at the small, black-velvet box presented to him on a flat palm. They stopped dancing, standing brow to brow in the foyer.

 

“Say yes,” Hannibal coaxed.

 

Will touched a fingertip to the box. “And if I don't?”

 

Hannibal smiled, all sharp incisors.

 

And put his hand into his pocket again.

 

-

 

**END**


End file.
